Engines and Outcasts: The Big Five
by eliazeravenfeather
Summary: A world of steel, helium, steam. Humans are but cogs & gears in the immense clockwork engine of the Southeastern Extremesian colonies. An inventor and pilot, a mischievous outlaw, a golden-haired heiress, a rebellious archer & an eccentric baroness. All improbable outcasts who may alter the engine forever — Rise of the Brave Tangled Frozen Dragons, RotBTFD Steampunk AU
1. Plant Alpha

**Stats**

 **Title:** Engines and Outcasts

 **Based on:** How to Train your Dragon (Dreamworks - 2010) | Tangled (Disney - 2010) | Rise of the Guardians (Dreamworks - 2012) | Brave (Disney Pixar - 2012) | Frozen (Disney - 2013)

 **Fandom:** The Big Five i.e. 'Rise of the Brave Tangled Frozen Dragons' (RotBTFD)

 **Universe:** Steampunk(-ish) AU

 **Time setting:** Own setting, you do not need to have watched all of the above listed films, even though numerous quotes and plot references will be made to them.

 **Genre:** Science-Fiction | Fantasy | Adventure | Romance | Society

 **Pairings:** HiccupxJack (Frostcup/HiJack), HansxAnna (Hanna), RapunzelxFlynn (Eugunzel), SandyxTooth (FeatherPillow) [No Jelsa.]

 **Rating:** T (unless said otherwise before given chapter)

 **Synopsis:** A world of steel, helium, steam. Humans are but cogs & gears in the immense clockwork engine of the Southeastern Extremesian colonies. An inventor and pilot, a mischievous outlaw, a golden-haired heiress, a rebellious archer & an eccentric baroness. All improbable outcasts who may alter the engine forever.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters and plot elements that belong to any of the studios listed above. References and shout-outs may be made to other works, which I may mention in the author's notes. The AU comes from my weird imagination. The cover image belongs to me.

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 **So, yeesh. This is my first fanfic on here. Hope you enjoy, please review, follow, favourite etc. Feedback/suggestions very welcome.**

 **A rather short-looking chapter, considering it includes some Berk Steel backstory, aircrafty actiony thingies and Hiccup meeting Jack.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything except for a weirdish universe and a handful of plot points.**

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"Control tower to unidentified winged object. Please identify yourself."

The metallic voice resonated in Hiccup's headphones integrated in his flying helmet. With a flick of a lever, he set up a set of wooden pulleys and iron gears to switch on the old gramophone. What a fine notion, a gramophone to accompany him in his solitude aboard his aeroglider. The sizzling notes of the classic Northern Extremesian tune submerged the radio message.

"Please identify yourself. Unidentified flying object, this is control tower. Corona & Sons Plant Alpha."

He could not care less. He could easily see it was Plant Alpha. The crown jewel of the Corona empire. The mighty family's hegemony, started off in luxury goods, had extended to gold, silver, constellite and precious gems in all the colonies of Southeastern Extremesia. On their purchase of the supposedly promising gold and constellite mine, they had made Plant Alpha into this gigantic termite mound, buzzing with humans and engines. A grotesque imitation of a flowering Cornucopian city at the heart of the primitive jungle.

Through the large glass windows of his vessel, Hiccup saw the sea of colossal zeppelins, turbines lazily rotating on their axes, the colourful hot air balloons of various sizes, oscillating slightly in the breeze, all chained to the ground with solid rope, all at such altitude they challenged the supremacy of the evergreen rainforest. Between the flying engines were multitudes of steel cranes and wooden platforms, ever in motion like the parts of an automaton. Everywhere, people of all ages and colours moved restlessly, carrying diverse objects from the walking cane to the sack of gold nuggets, from the heavy sepia scroll to the rusty iron pipe.

"Ready? Here we go, bud."

Hiccup had contracted that strange tendency to talk to his aeroglider during lonely flying time. Quite worrying for a twenty-year-old young man. The ship dove through the emerald canopy into the swarming activity of Plant Alpha. Everywhere around were puffs of steam, human shouts and glowering violet blue constellite light. With agility, Hiccup swayed the glider into the vertical plane. Slid in between two zeppelin helices. Sank to duck under a massive container pulled up by pulleys. Brushed past the side of a metallic tower. Rocketed into the canopy at top speed. None of the titanic ships could outmatch the velocity of his one-passenger engine.

"Woohoo!"

Flying was his greatest passion. Flying was what made him feel alive. As the only son of Stoick 'the Vast' Haddock, he was the heir of Berk Steel, a great metallurgical entreprise that played a key role in the production of all weapons in the colonies. Yes, weird names ran in the family. Some superstitious repel-the-ghost idea from their originary Miseralia. But Hiccup was no businessman. He was an inventor at heart.

From the youngest age, he had dismantled constellite-bullet rifles to make fireworks bloom over the familial ship deck. As he grew up, at his father's consternation, he started working on those small zeppelin-shipped military gliders to fabricate a self-sufficient engine for solo exploring flights. Crash after crash, mistake after mistake, desperately copious part scavenging after desperately copious part scavenging, he had finally achieved the current 'unidentified winged object'. He had become the only civilian aviator in the Eastern Extremesian colonies – who would ever be interested in doing so, anyways? – managed his first long-distance journeys and eventually reached Plant Alpha, to find finally be able to observe _them_.

 _They_ were the other main source of disagreement between Hiccup and Stoick. _They_ were the worst of pests in Berk Steel, in Plant Alpha and in all trade around the rainforest. _They_ were called the _Drifters_. They were robbers, smugglers, barefoot scum of Extremesia. Most of them were native savages, not men from the Old Continent. Clad in rags, dirty, always sleeping out in the wilderness, always planning raids for a steel shipment, a cotton delivery or a constellite caravan. Drifters were, between many others, the cause for Hiccup's mother's disappearance. They were the cause for Hiccup's injury and hence his prosthetic right foot. And for all those reasons Stoick would always have them in profound disgust.

The first time he had seen the Drifters, Hiccup had mistaken them for the mighty Valkyries. They raided from the skies, from some unfortunate-looking balloon. They wore leathery tissues between their legs and arms to glide like flying squirrels, and wielded long wooden sticks to keep their balance and assist their jumps. They lived on the roof of zeppelins, on the edge of balconies, on the narrowest end of tree branches. They vanished into the canopy as fast as they came, as if carried away by the winds, leaving no traces. They were humans with no fear for gravity. Humans with almost the gift of _flight_.

Some said, amongst the Berk clan, snickering behind his back, that he looked for them to claim his lost leg, or that he had naïve dreams his mother may have become one of them. Hiccup himself hardly knew the exact reason, but _they_ had always fascinated him. His father's whole clan had coughed in disapproval as he started to incorporate squirrel-like wings to his flying gear or metal hooks to his prosthetic leg. Naturally, the overcrowded Plant Alpha was the Drifters' predilection playground, and Hiccup had pretexted a new-monocrystal-doped-turbine-blade-test flight to be able to come and see them in activity. As long as Berk Steel could get some patent out of it, Stoick was too taken with his own affairs to say no.

Adjusting the tail fins through a mechanism connected to his prosthetic foot, Hiccup headed his plane directly below one of the larger zeppelins, into which the gold was being charged. The yellow sun of Corona was painted on the proud vessel's side. He marveled at the precision and power of the steam-operated engines that stacked and lifted the immense containers into the monster's belly. Absent-mindedly he inserted a sheet of paper into his flight luxographer – a present from his father's associate Gobber. The image would be useful for a launching platform design he had in mind. Narrowly avoiding a small balloon floating upwards, he whizzed past –

Crash! Shock. Noise. And yes, pain. The collision was far from elastic. The friction set the small, dark zeppelin on fire. The sturdy military steel of Hiccup's vehicle saved him from the same fate. His glider effectuated a series of perilous barrell rolls before he could stabilise it by unfolding the tip of the bat-like wings.

Somewhat clumsily, he scrambled back to his seat in the tiny cockpit. Adjusted his aviator goggles onto his eyes. Cursed at the mug of hot – turned warm – chocolate, knocked over during the impact, that had stained his gear. Reached out for the lever that powered the gramophone distractingly roaring into his ears. Actually managed to pull the wrong lever, and serve a cup of boiling hot coffee onto where the ceramic mug should have been.

"Calm down. Calm down," he muttered under his breath.

He had to check whether the burning vessel had any passengers in danger. On its flaming side he noticed the black bear sigil of DunBroch.

"Come on bud. We can do this," he whispered reassuringly, more to himself than to his plane.

He cautiously started to circle the endangered ship. Sparks bounced off his glider's metallic skin.

"Unidentified wing object. You have not identified yourself and attacked a registered aircraft. You are no longer under our protection. You have attacked…"

"By Odin's eye!" Hiccup cursed.

Of course they had to repeat everything in confusing chiasmi to annoy him further. And attacked, really? He was prepared to swear again, before an impact struck the carcass of his glider. Add the euphemism to the chiasmi. They were opening fire at him. Hiccup stared in panick as constellite arrows converged towards him. One of the typical weapons of the DunBroch militia hired by Corona. He flinched as a web of cracks propagated from the top of the cockpit's windshield. Driving with his right hand, Hiccup picked a roll of transparent tape – for glass, unfortunately the best he had on board – and applied it against the fracture. The arrows screeched like nails against steel. In a sickening crunch he heard an explosion from the left turbine.

"Calm down. Think. Calm down!"

The small motorless gliders released by the militia zeppelins dove down towards his plane. Berk Entreprise Dragonfang 180. Such irony. He could see the armed silhouettes of their archers aiming at him. His opponents went no faster than the ships that dropped them. Even without the balance of two side turbines, an accelerating boost would get them temporarily out of the way.

Teeth clenched, sweat beading his brow, he rotated the crank handle to deliver the impulse.

The ingenious system of rotating mirrors at the back of the plane adjusted to a parabola, focusing the light on the sample of raw constellite mineral that powered the whole machine. Constellite, the stuff of the stars, harnessed and stored the sunlight's energy with near-perfect yields. The purple blue hand-sized sample, at the centre of the aeronef, was connected by copper cables to all parts of the machinery. As, through the – actually – toughened glass roof, the sunbeam intensity was multiplied, the vessel was propelled forwards at maximal velocity by a jet of dark indigo plasma.

The Offspring of Lightning and Death. His clan's nickname for the plane was for once quite appropriate.

At a safe distance away from his followers, he was hovering directly above the mining pit, an unsettled motley crowd buzzing in panick just below. He turned off the still-functioning turbine to avoid going in circles, expanded the wings to their maximal span and prepared to open the safety helium balloons.

"Seriously? Can't you deploy?..."

He swallowed his saliva.

"Okay. Bud, I'll be right back."

One of the chains activating the mechanism must have been hit by an arrow, he could hear its worrying dangle against the carcass. He had to go out and fix it manually.

Hiccup opened the door and harnessed himself to the handle. He could do it. He had done it before. Just had not to look down. Not. Look. Down.

Oblivious to the hysterical crowd, he moved in tiny steps, clinging to the hot metal, towards the centre of the aircraft. If the greenhouse heat inside the cockpit was tiring, the outside was warm and moist. His hand was sweating heavily as he heaved himself over the wing onto the plane's glass roof. Using his prosthetic foot as a lever, he painstakingly slid a metal panel open to free the balloons.

"If I open the helium valve, I should be able to – "

He hardly noticed the dark arrow flying straight from above, from the deck of the largest militia zeppelin. The glass ceiling shattered. The arrowhead sank into the constellite sample. The massive amount of energy stored in the crystal's excitons and phonons was liberated.

But Hiccup's tetanised mind could only think: explosion. The plasma's intense radiation hurt the eye. The air was catching purple fire. Flames licked his fireproof suit and flying helmet. He was too shocked to scream. He was going to die. He was afraid. He was paralysed. He was _falling. Freely_.

Somehow, a silly old reflex took over, and he spread out his limbs. The coalstring reinforced membranes slowed down his fall. With a tap onto his abdomen, he deployed an artificial fin on the back of his suit to stabilise his direction. Somewhere deep inside his head he made a mental note to have a look at the springs that controlled the automatic opening of the mechanism.

Which is how he was momentarily distracted enough to be surprised as he landed over something soft. Well, relatively soft. It did hurt. And it did leave him stunned, lying face down and motionless, for seconds. Before sliding down from the unstable equilibrium point.

And he plummetted down. Screaming, this time. To his death in the darkness of the pit. To a fate worse than Hel…

It took him a fraction of a second to realise he had stopped screaming. A thin, unexpectedly strong arm was securely wrapped against his chest. The other one clung to a long wooden staff-like pole, the crooked end hooked onto the edge of a balloon's basket.

"Shh, it's going to be all right," murmured Hiccup's saviour into his ear, in a surprisingly youthful, playful voice. "We're going to have some fun."

Then he swung himself against the staff, launching both of them into an oscillation, and in mid-air – let go. With great elegance, the hooded man landed on top of a crane-suspended container. While holding Hiccup with one arm, he playfully caught his stick with the other. As their platform descended into the pit, he pounced onto a nearby aircraft, metal-plated like a giant insect. Pushed the young inventor aside to dodge a bullet from the surprised pilot. Scooped Hiccup off his feet. And jumped again into the void.

Without harness. Without parachute. Without even spreading his wings. It was as though the winds were his allies and friends. As though he could fully live in three dimensions. His slim, bare feet bounced gracefully against wood, metal, zeppelin, basket in their continous motion. Other hooded silhouettes were around them. Similarly jumping fearlessly and weightlessly. Of course, Hiccup knew who they were. _Drifters_.

They landed on the horizontal arm of a metallic crane, the aviator a few meters away from his saviour. The Drifter walked easily along the metallic cylinders towards the vacuum, oblivious of gravity, holding his stick like a balance pole. Hiccup attempted a hesitant step towards the other man. His prosthetic foot slid against the metallic tube. Before his heart had time to stop, the crooked end of the staff locked onto his foot and pushed him back to safety.

"Th-Thank you," was everything he managed.

The Drifter threw his pole at him. He understood he was to use it to keep his balance.

"Don't be afraid. You have to believe in me."

His saviour's reassuring words helped Hiccup catch his breath. Do. Not. Look. Down. Believe. One foot. In front. Of the other. You have to believe in me. One foot. The other.

Before he knew it, he had reached the other man, who stood nearly immobile, trying to maintain his equilibrium while waiting for him. Clumsily, he tried to hand him back his staff.

Their hands touched. The Drifter's were surprisingly cold, almost icy. In the surrounding heat, it was quite pleasant. He was cloaked in dark blue, bare white thread along the sleeves and the hood spreading like fractals of frost. His linen shirt and slightly short trousers were worn and simple. Beneath the shadow of the hood, Hiccup could distinguish sculptural traits, pale as alabaster. His eyes met the other man's. Blue like a winter morning sky after the storm. He felt himself blush under his flying helmet.

"Thanks. I-I'm-er – "

"And I'm Jack Frost. Nice to meet you," his saviour sneered with a point of humour.

Suddenly, the impact of the physical and mental shock hit the young inventor full on. A hurricane of sensations and emotions grew in his exhausted stomach. He felt his knees fold under his weight, and helplessly fainted into Jack's arms.

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 **Random Fact: Plant Alpha's name evokes a power plant, as the constellite mined there is the main material used in energy harvesting. Also a euphemism for much less appealing 'mine' or 'massive hole in the ground'. And of course Alpha does reference Hiccup's nemesis in the second film. (Also, alpha particles - He nucleus - Helium - Zeppelins!) Feel free to express concern upon sneaky geeky references or complain about (non-)canon stuff.**

 **Announcement: Beta reader would be very much appreciated, thank you! PM if interested! Thanks to everyone who made it to the end of this chapter. Constructive, justified criticism please. And please review, follow and favourite...**


	2. Rain over Camford

**Whoa, there's people actually reading, and even fav/following this! Thanks to everyone who's shown interest so far. Have a cyberhug. And if you spend a handful of seconds to give a review, advice or suggestions, that would be fantastic.**

 **Introducing some protagonists across the ocean, a pretty picturesque mansion and a Disney guest star who just got a live-action adaptation... so much for this chapter.**

 **Characters might be slightly OOC in their way of speaking to match the overall spacetime context... complain in the comments!**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own anything but a weirdish universe and a handful of plot points.**

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" _A dream is a wish… your heart…_ "

Raindrops were heavily drumming against the bay window. In a just as _rubato_ fashion, Miss Ella Ashcroft vocalised a high trill, followed by a chromatism, another nightingale-like trill, followed by a series of virtuose jumps…

" _Your heart… Ahahahaha…Ahaha…_ what on Earth?"

At the glass harpsichord, her accompanist had placated a thumping cadenza and stared right at her, mortified. Visibly the endless notes had brought her juvenile patience to an end.

"It is a plagal cadenza," she said accusingly.

"And I am a soprano," sharply retorted Ella. "Starting back from three bars before figure E, one, two, - "

"Ella!"

"Rapunzel!" the soprano mockingly echoed.

Miss Rapunzel Corona was hastily tuning up a glass string. As she rotated the little tuning key, the set of elegant little cogs and intricate mechanisms inside the translucid instrument extended the glass fibre ever so slightly. Miss Ashcroft let out a dramatically sighing rolled 'r'.

"Punz. Be ready. Three before E, one, tw- "

This time, she was interrupted by the shrill bell that called both girls to the manor's office. A youthful smile immediately broke her haughty operette mask.

"Last one there washes the parrot cage!" she yelled merrily as she ran across the music room, her light blue organza skirts fluttering behind her.

"Yup," smirked Punz.

With a swift gesture, she threw some music sheet pages gliding onto the monochrome marble floor. Slipping on one of them into a heavy fall, Ella let out an outrageously unladylike curse. With a clear shatter of laughter, the other girl ran past her, past the mechanical instruments and collection gramophones, towards the heavy red door.

The race was their secret ritual. The Crownworth Manor of Camford was not the grandest Rapunzel's family owned, but it was large enough for the two young women to run until their pump-clad-feet started to mirthfully burn. In a life full of corsets and conventions, this was their little spark of freedom when no one was looking. Miss Ella Ashcroft was a recently orphaned maiden, whose father, deputy head of the Company of the Eastern Isles of Extremesia, had been a trusted trade partner and close friend of Mr. Jerome Vincent Corona. It was therefore a natural decision for the Corona & Sons' generous hegemon to invite her to share roof and rooms with his only daughter Rapunzel. While the girls were held to the vacation house of Camford in the East of the flourishing Isle of Cornucopia, prowd crown jewel of the Old Continent, he was occupied pulling the strings of his empire from across the ocean, amongst the wilderness of the Extremesian Colonies.

Both girls were still giggling as they dashed across the old oaken-panelled library. Rapunzel's golden court shoes clattered loudly on the wooden floor, making the elderly librarian turn around from atop his ladder, amongst the scent of the old collection volumes and their ornate leather covers. The golden frills of her purple crinoline, assorted to her thick fair braided hair, rustled across the floor as she flew past.

As soon as she opened the door, the earthly smell reminded Punz of the heavy rain outside. The yellow limestone arcade, between the bright green, perfectly tamed grass court and the Crownworth Park, shielded both girls from the chill drops. Briefly catching her corseted breath, Rapunzel slowed down to stare out the massive ogive door, towards the rain-beaten quasi-Arcadian landscape outside. The gentle hills carried the refinement of the centenary oaks.

"Ha!" yelped a victorious Miss Ashcroft, pushing the other woman as she ran past her. Rapunzel tripped onto the steps outside the door, ending up immediately soaked.

"You cheater, you'll never beat me!" she shouted back with a laugh, speeding up to catch up with Ella.

The soprano was the first one to cross the covered bridge, leaving a crystal-studded pump behind. With a sigh, Miss Corona paused to pick it up, before racing down the slope that curved like the back of a purring cat. She reached the other woman by the time they crossed a red-carpeted corridor, bordered with an eclectic collection of paintings and luxographs. Some were genuine family portraits, while others had been left from the previous owners, the Crownworths, some broke noble family from whom Rapunzel's father had bought both title and lands. Global expansion objectives in mind, he had simplified their name to Corona, for convenience of pronunciation and spelling for all nationalities across Centralesia and Extremesia. Both girls joyfully waved back at the automaton suits of armour in the hall as the constellite-powered mechanical double-helix stairway brought them to a higher floor.

The reception office, one of the late Mrs. Evelyn Rose Corona's extravagances, was on the hanging walkway atop the greenhouse. The scents of multitudes of vegetal and fungal species screamed at the girls as soon as they walked in. Below them bloomed a variety of tropical flowers the Corona family had billed the most eminent botanists to cross and select to produce the most extraneous forms, colours and perfumes. Tall palm trees and arborescent ferns from the New World rose almost to the level of their feet. The automatic vapour dispensers covered the breathless girls with a veil of fresh droplets. Rapunzel sneaked out behind Ella to push her aside against the thin balcony of the walkway. As she was about to reach the 'finish line', she felt something hard and cold fall onto her shoulder.

"Hey, Pascal!" she whispered at the small clockwork chameleon perched over her, a present her father had brought her back from one of his many trips to Eastern Extremesia.

"Miss Corona. Miss Ashcroft," snapped a stern voice, as both girls reached the hanging office at the same time.

Mother Gothel, the terribly beautiful Prussoroman governess, eyed them expressionlessly from head to toe. Both of them were stifling a most disgraceful chortle. Ella's hair and skirts were unkempt from her run and fall, and she limped on a high heel and a bare foot. Rapunzel was completely soaked, holding a shoe in the one hand and a robot toy on the other. This was bound not to go down well. The result would be cold hazelnut soup for Rapunzel and all the washing up for Ella. The Corona heiress felt a pang of pity for her friend. Mother Gothel always gave her the worse punishments, since her 'favours' towards Punz were consequence of her ambition to gain her father's heart and his hand.

The matron in red stepped aside to reveal the man sitting in the study. He sat at the solid wooden desk, a paper-thin, lily-patterned cup of steaming tea in his hand. He was clad all in white, a gold-buttoned waistcoat over his spotless shirt, completed with cream-coloured trousers and riding boots. The assorted pale explorer hat looked a bit out of place, indicating the colonial man in the rainy coldness of old Cornucopia. His skin was slightly darkened by his journeys across the ocean, and while it seemed to disconcert Miss Ella, Miss Rapunzel's face broke into a joyful smile:

"Flynn!"

Her childhood friend precipitantly put down his cup to return her soggy, heartfelt hug. Flynn Rider was the son of the late eminent preceptor who had once taught her. Her mother had arranged for him to be adopted by silver mine company head Mr. Fitzherbert, for whom Jerome Corona was the main shareholder. After sweet Evelyn's passing, Flynn – renamed Eugene by his adoptive father, a much more appropriate name for a man of his class – had rapidly become one of Mr. Corona's many associates, assisting him in his whirlwind affairs across the ocean.

"What is the new world like? Do the rivers really taste like chocolate?" she asked teasingly. "They look the right colour on the luxographs Father sent me. "

"Punz! You look so… grown up! A lady like you should know they don't," he replied with a playful smolder.

"Oh, you have to see the Wellis Pamphlet! That ink sketch of you had such a cringeworthy broken nose!"

Both chuckled softly. He smelled like honey and his favourite Southerninsular spicy tea.

"Flynn, I am travelling to Dovehaven on the morrow to greet a cargo on my father's stead, will you come w- "

"Of course not," icily mouthed the Gothel, "someone should keep company to dear Ella. But I forget my manners. Mister Fitzherbert, this is Miss Ella Ashcroft from Hexagonia."

Her hostile smile betrayed her pleasure to see Rapunzel ridiculed in such fashion before the confused Ella.

"Daughter of the late Mr. Charles Ashcroft of the Eastern Isles Company and a trusted friend of Mr. Corona," added the governess.

And then, in an undertone. "Peace to his soul, and to that of the monkey that must have been poisoned by biting him."

Rapunzel gave Eugene a deadly look as he repressed his snigger. Poor Ella had been enough humiliated by the lowly joke. He managed to give her a polite nod, his reassuring eyes meeting her anxious ones.

"Miss Ashcroft, meet Mr. Eugene Fitzherbert. Son of the late Mr. Octave Ryder, adoptive son of Mr. William Fitzherbert, and associate to Mr. Corona."

The girl in purple gave her friend her shoe and a sorry look, as the latter walked to Flynn-Eugene for him to customarily kiss her hand. She hardly liked the way the Gothel's world revolved around her father.

"It is a great pleasure, Mr. Fitzherbert. I have heard many things about your achievements in the New World from my protector and his daughter."

"Ella Ashcroft, you flatter me. The luxographs I have seen of you cannot do justice to your elegance and beauty. Just call me Eugene."

Punz admired her for her manners despite the disgraces the Gothel had forced upon her. Ella was kind and had courage, all could clearly see it shine through.

"Miss Corona, would you mind accompanying me to our guest's quarters? It would be a shame if we did not make sure the servants have everything ready for Mr. Eugene's stay."

"Of course, Mother Gothel," precipitantly said a surprised heiress, running after the matron who stood at the doorstep of the greenhouse.

Both women left through the mechanical stairway, leaving the office to Flynn and Ella. Rapunzel picked up Pascal from her shoulder, the dim light of constellite powder shining through his translucid plastic scales between polariser layers, the fluid coloration patterns changing as she gently pressed her hands onto the automat's skin. Under the polarised transparent layers, the delicate steel structure, its tiny cogs and springs were just about visible. She slid the small automaton into her golden-lace-trimmed sleeve.

If she asked Gothel about what just occurred, she would be called stupid, and rightfully so. The deduction she had come to was somewhat unsettling.

"Has Father advised for Miss Ella's bethrothal to Fl… Mr. Fitzherbert's?" she enquired instead, in a curious and careful tone.

"Of course, Jerome approves," sneered the governess. "Do you not register that –"

"That Ella's inherited fortune would be a great asset for Mr. Fitzherbert and for our empire? That some Andersen, some Weaseltown or even one of _those_ Horrendous Haddocks would claim her hand had Father not given it to F… Eugene? That the Ashcroft legacy may escape our hands if someone _outside_ Corona  & Sons married her? That Ella is the perfect _reward_ for Father's associate's faithful service?"

Mother Gothel looked at the maiden in cold surprise. She was usually a docile child. She sounded imaginative and smart, as usual, but her words was too defiant to her taste.

"Well, Miss Rapunzel, it seems like your arguments are overwhelmingly in favour of this union. Your concern is therefore totally unfounded."

The heiress and her governess walked across the hall. Outside the immense window, they could see the dozen of collection sophisticated steamcars lined up on the beige gravel, facing away towards the sea of perfectly mowed grass.

"Well, Mrs. Gothel, I see things differently from what you seem to think. Eugene has forged himself a reputation in robbery, treason, escape and treachery, even the Wellis pamphlet knows that. He serves Corona & Sons in the darker and more lowly affairs such that Father may not get his hands dirty. He may well be my friend, but he has also become arrogant, self-centred and avid, I can see it even better than anyone else. Ella, by comparison, is patient and tender, courageous and kind… This cannot be…"

Mother Gothel was well aware the younger woman was feeling the flaw in her own reasoning. Despite her isolated upbringing, Rapunzel had the intuition for understanding human interaction.

"Cannot be what?" she asked with casual hostility.

"Fair! Right!" was the answer, sounding less convinced than it should have been.

Rapunzel was fairly surprised when the Gothel gave no answer. The long afternoon lights spilled over the empty boudoir as the two women walked through. The expensive porcelain projected eerie shadows onto the sun-patterned ceiling. Outside, the rain had calmed down. The clouds seemed about to burst with golden light, and the emerald glass was saturated with water and colour. A neo-gothic tower, covered in artificial cracks and carefully selected ivy and brambles, cut out a silhouette in the distance. Those old-looking fabrics were a furious fashion in the later days of Rapunzel's mother, before her passing of some fever caught in the damp hotness of the Southern Isles of Extremesia.

Mother Gothel stopped in front of the Murano glass mirror next to the boudoir door. Almost affectionately drawn towards the governess with a hand to her corseted waist, the young heiress contemplated their juxtaposed reflections.

A woman in the beautiful and difficult age, creases just forming either side of the deep onyx eyes and the proportioned dark lips, gray streaks just hinted in the luscious black curls, titanium spectacles hanging amongst pearl necklaces, a crimson mermaid dress emphasizing the full bust and the hourglass shape, a simple golden belt underlining the slim waist, at which hung a set of keys and a copper-coloured radiocommunicator, a studied and elegant pose.

By her side, a juvenile, round-faced, doe-eyed maiden, with abundant blond hair, slim shoulders, an corset embroidered with flower and clockwork patterns, a still slightly wet, elaborate purple crinoline, refined lace trimming and assorted jewelry, a golden pocket watch marked with the familial sigil, clockwork Pascal emerging from the trimmings of her left sleeve, a pretty and youthful stance.

"Look in that mirror," said the governess. "I see a strong, confident, beautiful young lady."

Rapunzel allowed herself a smile. Did Mother Gothel truly view her as such? Could she possibly finally observe her maturity and her weight in the balance of affairs?

"Oh look, you're here too," she finished with sharp humour.

Rapunzel attempted with a mitigated success to hide her dropping smile. She was still beautiful, the Gothel, still young, still in age to court a wealthy widower like her father, and Rapunzel was but a tool for her purpose. A part in an engine no one asked the opinion of. Whether she was right or wrong, about Eugene and Ella or about anything else, hardly mattered at all.

In melancholic silence the pair walked through to the guest bedroom, the governess carefully checking that the fresh scented linen was all in its place. The ebony clock on the wall was ticking almost sadly, its little hands moving in their endless petty dance, its pendulum swinging from left to right and back from right to left, pretty oblivious of all the fuss.

"Oh and by the way, Miss Corona, do you truly believe in what is fair? Do you only believe in the headings of the volumes from the old library? Let me tell you one thing, Miss Corona. Preceptors may have simplified things for you to learn, but in the world there is no black and white. There are just different tints of sepia. There is your family, your friends, your fortune, your love, your dreams, and mine, and your father's, and Mr. Fitzherbert's, and everyone else's. But you're still a child, and your world still revolves around you like that little sun mobile your mother hung over your cradle."

For goodness's sake, she was a lady, she could not just storm outside the room and slam the door. That would just have proved the Gothel's mean words. She played with a loose strand of her long blonde hair to calm herself down. _Be like Ella. Be kind and have courage._

"You must be right, surely. You are still young, and yet so experienced... Pardon me, I have been puerile. I guess there is no point for me to go to Dovehaven on the morrow then. I allow you to travel in my name to greet the new arrival of nacre from the Northern Isles. You may also choose by yourself which item of jewelry from the package Father sent me you would prefer. I am sure he would approve of a little gratitude for your faithful services."

The young woman had muttered the words in a stammer, in a shame that her manners hardly concealed. Little Miss Corona, docile Miss Corona, always trying to get on Mother Gothel's good side.

"Miss Rapunzel, be sure I am very glad to assist you and spare you the exhausting ironhorse trip down to Dovehaven. As to your offer, I shall not forget to mention to Jerome how generous and grateful his daughter has been raised to be."

The woman in red was triumphant, Rapunzel could hear it in every of her syllables. She was enjoying with some sadism how the young heiress was capitulating before her influence. As the Gothel took her leave to the kitchens to make sure the supper would be ready in time, Rapunzel lingered in the guest room's solitude. She opened the window and released Pascal onto the windowsill, watching with fascination as the automaton's tiny feet crawled up the vertical surface. Against the red brick wall the violet wisteria shone angrily. She could distinguish a rainbow sink into the earth at the foot of the fabric tower in the distance. Her eyes lit up with mirth, and she savoured her small victory.

It was like one of those races through the halls, or one of those spoonfuls of salt sneakily poured into the Gothel's coffee. It was nothing, and yet it was her everything. She had tricked the matron to her own game, and while the older woman was travelling back from Dovehaven on the roads with the Corona & Sons employees and their heavy cargo, she would stay in Camford, speak to Eugene and obtain from him a proposal and a zeppelin trip to the New World.

Oh, she loved young Miss Ashcroft certainly, as her closest friend, for her patience and gentleness. She thought she wanted to help, and had to help, to feel happy for her, the soprano deserved it. But it could not be all.

Of course, there was Flynn.

Punz did not love him for who he was. Regardless of what her father or the Gothel could have made him be. Punz loved him for what he could be, and how she could change him for the better. Punz loved him for the pain she would endure in the process, in her little ever so slightly tortuous mind. Punz loved him for the suffering near as much as for the outcome, and how much it was worth the effort.

Even if, in the grand scheme of things, it may not change much.

Even if, in its corner, the rythmic tick tock of the grandfather clock could not seem to care less.

* * *

 **Fun fact: I had to give names to some existing characters (not named on the Disney Wikia, for the reference). Cinderella's father got the first name of Charles Perrault, whose version of her fairytale is maybe the most famous. The same thing will happen to Hans Andersen from the Snow Queen/Frozen. Rapunzel's mother could do with something Genesis-like and something floral. As to Vincent Jerome, shout-out to... go figure it out ;) [hint: Eugene has something to do with this, and so does the staircase shape]. Speaking of shout-out, some more or less blatant nods to a brilliant play whose title is actually pretty much quoted in the chapter and capitalised...**

 **Announcement: Ranting about my other fanfic projects. I have some vague idea of an in-extended-universe Spectacular Six fic, featuring Hiccelsa and politics and swords and sorcery (think aSoIaF meet Disney meet Dreamworks meet some LGBT+ characters!). Ideas on that are very welcome! And as before, read and review, follow and favourite! (Constructive) comments would be very, very, very appreciated, thanks :)**


	3. The First Universal Exposition

**Thanks for reading, fav'ing etc! Keep being awesome. Please constructively review, I will try to individually answer them. Yes, I do want to talk about what happened to Hiccup and Jack after Chapter 1, but we haven't met the all of the Big Four yet! Don't worry, you'll get to know all the details of that bit soon enough, plus more Astrid backstory. So, onto…**

 **Chapter 3, in which people are being people, the last-introduced of the Big Four is being a badass and Olaf is an albino platypus. Featuring half of the Big Four, Elsa and Anna in the same place, with a load of canon character cameos for good measure.**

 **Disclaimer: *insert usual disclaimer***

 **Content warning: violence, implicit racism**

* * *

The distinguished crowd was loudly vomited into the arena. Aristocrats, burgeoisie, adventurers, inventors, tradesmen, philosophers, patrons, doctors, generals, men in top hats and gold spectacles, women with telescopic binoculars and refined parasols, old and young in white gloves and leather boots, miniature golden watches as cufflinks and exotic feathered pets perched on shoulders. All the high-end names around the region had received an invitation. It was a debauchery of grandeur, a festival of faraminous fortunes. Sponsored in overwhelming majority by the almighty Company of the Southern Isles and their patriarch, Mr. Frederik Andersen, in a breathtakingly lavish display of their supremacy. It was undoubtedly the largest arena ever built inside a zeppelin, for who would ever want to host a whole festival fifty meters above ground?

"Weaseltown, of course. Our host."

" _I am the Duke of Weselton_ ," corrected the old weasel, er, man, in an offended gesticulation.

"Of course. What a pleasure."

"Pleasure which, _of course_ , is returned. Stoick the Vast, the living embodiment of Berk Steel, the flourishing company that provides the metal for our sugar bowls and our aerogliders. This is going to be a great day, sir. Actually, it is not going to be a great day, it is going to be a great week, a great exposition. The greatest Weselton exposition there has ever been across all the Southern Isles of the Continent of Extremesia. As well as, evidently, across Old Centralesia, Western Extremesia, the Continent of Elephantine and the Faraway Lands of Kangaria… In fact, the greatest and most wonderful exposition that ever occurred in the history of the Universe, the most spectacular Universal Exposition that ever graced this world - "

"- and also, the first."

"Oh, I was being forgetful. That only adds to the honours and the excitement! The very first and foremost Weselton exposition – "

"It's the first time in forever, I am sure it is going to be a resounding success," agreed a comely red-haired girl with a fashionable silver streak in her braids, enthusiastically flapping her lime green fan, assorted to her elegant striped dress. "Will there be animals? Jaguars, lizards, great parrots from the jungle? Will there be singers, dancers, musicians?"

"And many more, milady. And many more…"

Stoick suppressed a relieved sigh as the ginger aristocrat, that younger baroness of Arendelle, bouncily walked away through the rows of seats with the old Duke. The girl gave a discretely cheerful sign towards them. He saw her rejoin her blonde sister, who looked stunning in a turquoise gown ornated with natural flowers.

Sighing, Stoick the Vast extracted a small handkerchief from the pocket of his tight black jacket to wipe the sweat on his brow. The atmosphere in the arena was suffocatingly warm. All around, the human mass was cheering and shouting. The afternoon was going to be long. Of course as an honoured guest, he sat in a dedicated box with some of his clan. The seat to his right was empty. Hiccup was supposed to come, but he had radiomessaged in an hour earlier apologising for a damaged wind turbine. What an idea it was, he thought, to try and grow a single crystal the size of a finger. Stoick knew some about metallurgy, certainly, but he was no man for detail. He was a master of the big picture, of the immense markets, of the minds of all clients and shareholders alike. He was a more than capable businessman, who had expanded a familal empire in the merciless competition of the colonies.

"The DunBroch mercenaries are opening the show! Do you think there's gonna be fights?" wondered Ruffnut, one of Hiccup's friend, fanning herself with the paper programme. Her platinum blonde tresses almost matched the tone of her lace ivory dress.

"Obviously, you stupid! _I_ wonder whether there's gonna be deaths!"

That was her twin brother, the equally unnerving Tuffnut, fidgeting with his new explorer's hat.

"Really, you brainless rat?"

Ignoring the siblings' bickering, Stoick borrowed a pair of binoculars off Astrid, his adoptive daughter, to scrutinise the crowd. The DunBroch clan sat in the front, near the Stabbingtons and the Weasel – _Weseltons_ themselves. These mercenaries, originally troublemakers shipped away from the rainy harshness of Northern Cornucopia beyond the wall, had been nothing more than troublemakers across the ocean. Until Fergus DunBroch had started to selectively recruit them and train them as archers and men at arms. Fergus had then offered his services to the noblemen around the Isles, including the weasel people and the stabby ones, to fight off Drifters and diverse scum. But his name and his dark bear emblem was hardly heard of until he had struck that blasted landslide contract with Corona  & Sons themselves, for the latter to exclusively employ DunBroch soldiers in their militia. Coronas who, Stoick noticed, were surprisingly absent from the exposition. All the notable clans and families had been invited to the 'Universal Exposition', also their absence presaged nothing good.

Fergus DunBroch was a broad man, as large as Stoick himself, dressed in the ridiculous skirtish fashion of the people of his land. He was a warrior at heart himself, who had lost a leg to an oversized robot in some tournament. His wife, the elegant Elinor, looked minuscule by his side, clad in nude pink, as she attempted to reprimand her daughter's sitting position. The young girl, whose hair as orange as her father's was desperately hirsute, crouched ungracefully in her heavy dark blue skirts, rudely hiding her face behind a guest list booklet.

The first trumpets resonated. Astrid nervously shifted in her seat. The eldest Arendelle baroness rested her hand on her pet albino platypus. The youngest lowered the sorbet she was shaping into a snowman. The Andersens of Canis Major, in the largest of the boxes, pulled out their metallic binoculars in synchronisation.

A flock of aerogliders pulled a black veil onto the titanic arena, plunging them into darkness.

The first performers poured into the arena. It took the viewers' eyes some time to adapt, and understand they were no mercenaries. The dark-haired, tawny-skinned, scantly-clad figures were natives, rythmically dancing to the sound of the flutes and maracas and regrouping at the centre of the arena, holding large wooden discs.

Astrid's heart was in her throat. She liked combat, understood war – but this? She hoped it was not what she expected.

And then the first steam-powered chariot emerged, illuminated by a constellite lanterns, followed by a dozen of identical machines. Cheered by the audience, they rode smoothly until they surrounded the dancers, who stood in a smaller circle, holding their targets before their armour-less body as sole shields. In turn, each strung an arrow and aimed at a wooden disc. All constellite arrows met the exact centre of their targets, lighting up an indigo spot in the darkness. Astrid swallowed her saliva. Both warriors and weapons were impressive. The chariots spun in a perfectly circular orbit, while the archers lit up more and more constellite lights.

Then the platform on the arena's ground, where all the natives were standing, started to spin in the opposite way, drawing the dots into blurred lines of mesmerising purple and blue. The militians continued to ride around and shoot at each target, unperturbed, with shocking speed and precision. And then, the target-holders started to dance, rotating their vertical discs along the vertical axis. The lines of lights became patterns, and it was disturbingly beautiful. Their dance became more and more intricate, as the circles accelerated their rotation. The blue patterns blossomed into vivid abstract images, almost geometrically perfect. The audience was hysterical. Shouts, tears, cheers tore through the repetitive music.

Astrid was somehow aware that Hiccup was in his seat by her side, looking dashing in a dark blue ensemble and well-combed hair. She gave him an acknowledging nod. She wanted to ask after his latest flight, but she would have to wait for that.

The patterns came to flow impossibly fast, until the eye could no longer distinguish anything but a magnificent blur of indigo, and all emotion had turned into wonder.

And suddenly, the light came back. The blinded guests vaguely distinguished the small motor less aeroglider – Berk Entreprise Dragonfang 200, noted a satisfied Stoick – tear through the thin black veil and spiral downwards towards the centre of the arena. Before the attention reported back to the central rotating platform, it had been lowered by a mechanical system into the ground, carrying whatever might have been sensitive to watch into the colossal zeppelin's stomach. It was a truly sensibly designed performance. The pilot performed a looping and a series of cartwheels, earning impressed whistles from the audience.

"You're better than that," whispered Astrid to Hiccup.

Her childhood friend blushed slightly.

With the deployment of small balloons, the glider landed onto the arena's sand, the line of archers running after it. The aircraft slowed down as they grabbed onto it, nearly coming to a stop, while they inserted their arrows into dedicated rings under the wings. Hiccup liked what would come next. The militia members shared a look in order to synchronise and shoot, to launch the plane back into the air.

In that short time, a peculiar figure ran across the arena. Reached the glider's tail. Ran after it while it was propelled upwards. And skillfully stood up over one wing. The public gasped in awe and admiration. The silhouette wore a blue gown larger than it was high, a mess of rebellious red curls pouring down her shoulders as she discarded her hat. Drawing a glaive from her belt, she ripped off a large panel of her skirts, leaving it roughly mid-thigh length at the front and knee-length at the back, and revealing striped blue and gold tights. Astrid was clapping gaily at the fellow warrior girl.

As she noticed the seemingly confused archers, she guessed this wasn't part of the planned performance. However, if the pilot looked absolutely mad at the redhead, no one else in the arena did a gesture to take her down. Until the pilot decided to draw his own bow and aim at her.

The rest happened in a split second. Which ended in the pilot's arrow very neatly _split in half_ mid-flight by the girl's. The audience gave a collective gasp. She wielded a unique bow model, adapted to her size and strength, with a clever system of pulleys to amplify exerted force at smaller deformations, as well as constellite-powered gyroscopes in the centre to stabilise the arrows' direction in flight. She drew long, thin coalstring arrows from a slender belt quiver and held them on the right size of her bow for shortened response time.

Instantly Hiccup shivered. He hardly knew the implications of this, but the arrow length and weight as well as the firing technique seemed to match…

But whatever was planned, the showrunners had decided to get on with the demonstration. When the central platform rose again, Hiccup and Astrid could not decide whether what it supported was better or worse. Perfectly motionless was an oversized combat automaton, all covered in dented steel armour, the shape of a giant bear. The small clockwork eyes glimmered with constellite, like the threatening glare of a berserker. A bear, symbol of the DunBroch Clan as well as the very same type of machine that had taken Fergus's leg. For the audience's entertainment, Astrid conjectured they would not take it down immediately, but rather play with it for a few amusing and violent minutes.

She was right. A first warrior deployed some blades from the machinery of his bow and effectuated an acrobatic fight choreography to approach the creature. He managed to stab its stomach before retreating rapidly, earning some audience claps in the process. One of his comrades gestured to another, before initiating a symmetric attack to shoot at the bear's arms and pin them down, but the armour deflected both. If their hit rate was actually that far from perfect in daylight, Astrid forbid herself to think about in what state the dancers could possibly be…

Somehow they had angered the clockwork beast. With a powerful swing of its forepaws, it sent one of the soldiers to the ground. The man reached for one of the arrows his quiver had dispersed onto the floor, not quite fast enough to string it before…

A coalstring arrow fell very vertically onto the robot's head, ineffectively bouncing off but distracting its programmed attention. A second later, the girl in blue, in a blossom of skirts, _jumped_ down from the aircraft onto its shoulders. Before the constellite eye cameras could see her to shake her off, she drew her glaive and placed it in between the powerful jaws to keep then open. Drew an arrow and shot straight at the infernal mouth. Once. Twice. Thrice.

The bear fell to the sand. The crowd had no refinement left. Loud sobs as well as dramatic screams resonated through the arena. The girl landed quite elastically onto one knee and one hand. The soldiers around her were too confused to intervene. In a sudden berserk rage, the automaton lashed a powerful paw at her. She narrowly avoided it with an unladylike backflip. And surprisingly heavily fell to the ground, sending the sand to fly all around. The beast's combat algorithms could not compute with the multitude of particles. Taking advantage of its momentary blindness, the female warrior drew the robot's head towards her with the string of her bow and swiftly sliced it off with her glaive.

There was no point in making a superhuman combat robot that could be beheaded in a single blow by an average blade, or whose whole computational and directional power was placed in the head. None, but the sake of entertainment and the semblance of logic when it came to the public's reaction. Such that the bear moved no more, and the redhead scrambled to her feet, delivered an ineffective kick at the clockwork carcass and met the audience's positively stunned eyes with a rage-filled determination.

"Sorry, but I have some doubts you're better than that," Hiccup murmured towards Astrid.

"Can I plead not comparable? I have no idea what she can do with an axe and a shield. Classic female warrior generalisation."

"Ah, er, sorry."

"Also, please stop apologising."

"Sorry about… er… s… um, yeah."

They shared a mischievous grin. By the time they reported their attention to the arena, the performance had come to an end. Some stewards were cleaning up the bear's carcass and the chariots. A loudspeaker announcement by Weaseltown invited them to join the first night's gala ball. The human mass was pouring out of the theatre into the rest of the zeppelin. They had to get bathed and changed before the celebrations of the evening.

In the DunBroch lounge, the warrior girl stomped her way in, hair messier than ever, glaive in one hand and bow in the other.

"Merida, what do you think you're doing?"

Eleanor DunBroch's stern voice made her freeze for an instant, but she made no reply.

"Merida, you risked your life, the performers' _and_ the audience's in that little tantrum of yours. They could have killed you had they not recognised you as our daughter. Haven't you done enough inconsiderate things this week?"

"It wasn't inconsiderate. I saved that lad's life."

"The fight was choreographed, not on the robot side for obvious safety reasons but on the human one. The bear's reaction was predicted, he was at no risk. The pilot would have pinned it down with a net and the mercenaries would have finished it off. That effect was just for _drama_."

Merida shrugged, laying her bow down on the lounge's table as she playfully threw a cookie into one of her younger brothers' mouth. The kid caught with delight.

"Chat was aweshome sis!" he commented while chewing.

"Hamish, no talking with your mouth full. Merida, no weapons on the table."

The girl picked up her bow, shooting a deadly stare at her mother.

"What now? A bow on a table? Did that endanger the lives of thousands and thousands of people? Seriously?"

"I'm not finished yet, Merida. You want to talk about that skirmish at Plant Alpha, let's talk about it. You shot an arrow directly down from our zeppelin's deck onto a plane. You blew up a glider, in a _constellite_ -fueled explosion. You had no idea how large or well-contained the constellite sample could have been. That detonation could have blown you up, blown all of us up. There were so many flammable balloons all around, a very high human concentration, not even to mention the pilot in his ship."

"The pilot was _outside_ the ship. He fell off straight after the impact and didn't explode."

"And what for? Just because Fergus was on his trial week with Corona & Sons and would not let you fly out with the militia. So you threw a childish tantrum. And the same thing today. You were damaging our image by behaving so disgracefully in public, even before that scandalous intervention of yours into the performance. I sensibly told you to stop and you reacted like this."

"Scandalous? I _impressed_ them. They _liked_ it."

"Maybe you were lucky this time, but you won't always be! Do you even know what it takes to be a soldier, Merida? Not just luck and skill with a bow and notions of how to hold a glaive. But discipline. Trust. Communication. And you've got none of that. As long as you don't listen to anyone, talk to anyone about your plans or swallow your angry pride, don't be surprised if you can't fly with the soldiers, because you're not one."

Merida could take it no more. As an ultimate sign of provocation, she sank her glaive into the table's wood and stormed off in a ruffle of torn skirts into her changing room.

" _What_ did I say about weapons on the table? I haven't even mentioned how expensive that dress was or how long I took to deal with your hair and makeup!"

Ignoring her mother's cry, Merida DunBroch slumped onto the colonial style fainting chair, amongst a ludicrous collection of party dresses. She could hardly care less about her gown. Or her hair. She was not a lady, she was not a soldier, she was a warrior, a brave and skillful one. And no one ever saw her as such, even after such a convincing demonstration. In this world of cogs in wheels where every piece had to fit in with the next, she was a free element, like a sample of raw constellite that could not be tamed. She had no place here. She had no planned future.

"Merida," yelled her mother through the curtain. "I spoke to Fergus and we're flying back to Plant Alpha in an hour. We've spent enough time here. And the Coronas need him."

Merida regretted she'd left her glaive on the table, for she gladly would have used a blade to cut off that silly corset. Suddenly, she sat up with new fiery determination. Her _fate_ lived within her, and she was brave enough to see it. To _change_ it, even. The social engine was great, it was strong, but strong she was, too. And if there was no way she may fit in the machine, like a tough sand grain she'd slip in and _break_ it.

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 **Fun fact: Canis Major. Totally unforgiveable, I know. Canis Major -** **Great Dane -** **Denmark. The in-universe ersatz for the insular Danish region with Copenhagen and Odense. Canis Minor can be the less economically/politically important mainland region. Andersen is a Danish name, and in the Frozen context it does make sense that Hans's family would be from somewhere around there. (This is an alternate universe, so the map given in Frozen Fever may qualify for description as well…).**

 **[Random note: I gave Merida a glaive instead of her two-handed broadsword. I thought it fit better in-universe, and matches her fighting style better. She is small and fast, as exemplified during her riding-shooting session, so a shorter and lighter blade fits better. Additionally, she can hold each of her weapons, bow and glaive, in each hand, which shortens weapon-switching time. Feel free to be mad at me.]**

 **Announcement: upcoming exams (Cambridge finals, kinda big deal?) so won't be able to update as much in the next few days. As usual please R &R, F&F. Do complain about my author's notes, my obsession with physics and with outfits, my, ahem, slightly unrealistic fight scenes, my despair for comments etc. etc. etc.**


	4. Clockwork Waltz and Illusion

**Wheww, nearly 200 views and first reviews! Lots and lots of thanks. Had to take a few minutes to answer. I had most this chapter written out, since it was originally planned to go before Chapter 3. This chapter is rather more court-like/intellectual/strategic than the rest so far and probably what comes next, which is bound to be more action-packed, complain in the comments if that's too much (also tell me if you want more of that). Additionally, I just realised I have SO MANY CHARACTERS, maybe due to four-way crossover with two additional appended universes. In advance sorry for lengthy A.N.**

faisyah865 and Noon30ish: Thanks so much for your support! *Big automaton hugs*

Noon30ish: thanks thanks thanks ad lib for taking time to constructively review! I have no great plans for Elsa within this fic (sorry Ice Queen fans) but Anna does have an important supportive role to play, at the same level as Astrid, Eugene, and maybe to a lesser extent Ella Ashcroft, also from a different universe, amongst the already introduced characters. Also, I'm attempting to give most characters backstory and development, and can give narration POV to pretty much anyone (including a sea slug and a supercomputer, in original works). About the Big Four, while I sometimes find the delimitation rather arbitraty, they are somewhat symbolically apart from the rest of the cast (cannot explain without mild spoilers) and are intended to have a common dynamic that is rather different from the way Anna, Elsa and Hans interact with either of them. So yes, Anna is an organic part of the plot and a developed (starting from this chapter) POV character but not a protagonist at the same level as Hiccup, Jack, Rapuzel and Merida. (On a different note, I realised I'm enjoying RapunzelxFlynn more than I expected, so there might be less room for AnnaxHans… don't know yet). About jargon: hardly noticed, being scientifically oriented myself rather than economically. I feel like some eco/political content is necessary in this universe, but I'll try to keep that in mind. Hope that answered your comment. PS: I don't really have that much time to update, due to something called Cambridge physics exams, but I work all day and write half the night to tone down stress…

 **Chapter 4, where chocolate abundantly flows, Hans quotes Newton, Anna goes all Oscar Wilde at him and more chocolate flows abundantly.**

 **Disclaimer: Things I don't own include the phrase "away with this pretence" as well as whatever Newton or Wilde might have said.**

 **CW: Kissing, mentions of GMOs (in case that bothers anyone), [attempt at writing a realistic Anna, costume porn, purple prose.]**

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The pale pink pearl necklace looked delicious on her carnation, making her freckled cheeks and her copper-tainted locks stand out. The young woman selected her hat herself, a dark green cap to match the rest of her outfit, with a small lace veil falling over her turquoise eyes and crimson parrot feathers on the top. With an experienced gesture, the handmaid pinned the hat onto her mistress's braided bun with a brass pin as long as her hand. She took a step back, letting the young baroness contemplate her reflection in the ovale mirrors on the dressing room desk.

"Thank you Gerda. Your services are invaluable. You may dispose."

"I am honoured, milady Anna," was the servant's brief answer as she left the room.

As usual, her maid had done wonderful work with her hair and make-up. Smooth auburn curls fell onto her bare shoulders, beside the nacre tear-shape earrings, and into the heart-shaped neck of the deep forest green dress. The ballgown, embroidered with the colours of Arendelle and ornamented with bright ribbon bows, perfectly flaunted her petite shape. Oh, such extravagance to wear dark velvet in the tropics. Such effort, that meant, to stand out from the sea of ladies in flowing white cotton dresses, as such was the fashion in the colonies. Such effort to attract attention in a room crowded with the greatest refinement of all Eastern Extremesia.

The gown had cost her nothing, having belonged to her late mother, Baroness Iduna of Arendelle, whose years had been cut short with her husband's in a tragic zeppelin crash. The Arendelles were part of these nobleborn families that had known wealthier and mightier days. Plainly put, Anna of Arendelle's only way to save her family and its heritage from bankruptcy was to trade her title for some gold and marry some morbidly rich industrial heir seeking to add a particle to his name. And there happened to be one in particular in the list of guests for the ball.

As esteemed guests to the event's host, the Duke of Weselton, Elsa and Anna of Arendelle had their quarters in the colossal zeppelin that was to welcome the epicurean festivities. The two sisters' pensions were mainly subsidised by Weaseltown, as they called him behind his back, whose own revenues came in large proportion from the protection of the Company of the Southern Isles of Extremesia. After sliding a pair of silk gloves on, Anna only had to walk down the corridor and descend one of the symmetric mechanical iron stairs to reach the ballroom.

One hand on the ornate moving balcony, that featured flowing vegetal motifs around the visible machinery, the other casually clutching her green and golden fan, she examined the sumptuous assembly that swarmed in the colossal ballroom. She was aware of how many eyes were on her. She studied the faces and their expressions. She had spent time on the book of guests, and could distinguish many a face amongst them. And right behind the soft curtain of the chocolate – chocolate! – fountain was her prey. Hans Andersen, born in Canis Major, youngest heir of the overpopulated thirteen-brother-family that pulled the strings of the Company of the Southern Isles. About her age, celibate, and disproportionately rich.

Anna was also aware of one thing. Amongst all the ladies in the room, only one challenged the attention she was obtaining through her grace and sophistication. Her own elder sister, Lady Elsa, Baroness of Arendelle.

As a steward discretely announced her arrival, Lady Anna whipped out her fan and drifted through the crowd, the music, the dishes and the wines, giving appropriate acknowledgements and bows to those around her, based on rank and influence. By the time she had reached her initial destination, she was sure everyone in the room knew who she was, and what she meant.

"My sweetest sister, such a joy to see you here!" she exclaimed, seizing the older woman by her arm. "Miss Hofferson, I am delighted to finally meet you," she directed at her sister's interlocutor, who seemed hardly any more talkative than Elsa. "I have seen your ravishing image countless times on Berk Steel promotional posters and pamphlets, it is the greatest honour to meet one of the most impressive women of Southeastern Extremesia."

Miss Hofferson gave a quick, embarassed nod. Expertly reading Elsa's expressionless face, Anna saw her sibling had little notion of whom she had been talking to. Anna was energetic, extravagant and awkward, as she had always been, and she knew it very well. That was how people perceived her, and liked to perceive her. A hot-blooded aristocrat to be picked like a flower, who presented no real threat. But behind the flutters of her fan, Anna was not nearly as naïve as she was believed to be. Her embarassing episode with Mr. Kristoff Bjorgman, former 'icemaster' to her family who had almost eloped into the icy fjords with her and half of what was left of the Arendelle fortune, before Elsa had to intervene. With her natural instinct for social functions and her experience, Anna knew the ropes and pulleys of the world of lace and gold quite well. Well enough to exactly determine how she would catch her prey.

"Don't you think the music is very comical? Old Continent instruments, lutes and harps, little tunes and all, and underneath these devilish native rythms, beats in three with beats in two, all tricky and irregular. One must be fiendishly stupid to play such a piece, don't you think? And comically so."

The two siblings were pacing down the room, to the greatest pleasure of onlookers.

"Dear sister, you look beautiful," said a courteous and reserved Elsa, ignoring the lunacies of the younger woman.

"You look… beautifuller?" retorted an even more extravagant Anna.

The crowd was cheerily whispering all around them. Those neologisms were so crazily fashionable in the colonies these days.

And indeed, Lady Elsa gave a stunning image. Her ice blue empire waist gown emphasized her slender arms, and the constellite-studded shawl around her fine shoulders sparkled in the dim halogen light. A small tiara stood out in her platinum blonde, elaborate bun – another resounding success from Gerda – and the pale amethyst and emerald powdering on her eyelids gave her exquisite sky-toned eyes an extra touch of brilliance.

But Anna's eyes were once again scanning through the mass of dashing gowns and elegant suits, towards the chocolate fountain where Hans quietly spoke to Mr. Bunnymund, some Kangarian-sounding director at Plant Alpha.

She looked at Hans.

He looked at her.

He knew. She knew, and she knew he did. They were two playing the same game.

She looked away. Gracefully poured herself a cup of hot chocolate. Turned around, only to forcefully bump into her host and benefactor.

"Pardon my extreme clumsiness, my Lord! Accept my apologies, I am so, so sorry… Here, let me help."

Her embroidered pocket handkerchief did little else than spread the nasty chocolate stain onto his brand new dinner jacket. She did not drop her smile while carefully overreacting. Behind spectacles, kerchiefs and fans, the whispers called her clumsy, endearing, silly-headed, fragile, adorable. All true, while leaving out the perhaps essential: smart, determined and ambitious.

Flying to the rescue of her sister, Elsa of Arendelle politely asked the old Duke for a dance. Ah, exactly what Anna needed. Naturally, the patron could not refuse the gloved hand of such an exquisite lady. In the corner of her vision, Mr. Bunnymund had walked away from Mr. Andersen to taste some of the chocolate eggs. **[WHOOAA EASTER EGG!]**

Now was the time to play.

Anna thoughtfully chose a fresh strawberry – shipped straight from Southern Hexagonia, no less – and dipped it into the fountain's chocolate veil. In the created insterstice, she could see Hans's white and blue costume, his elegant auburn hair and tamed sideburns. And clearly she could see he saw her.

He smiled.

She smiled back.

Ignoring the breathtaking cuteness of his crooked grin. _Oh, courting always went so slowly!_

Anna was maybe cunning, but she was young and impatient. Mentally cursing herself for her haste, she deliberately broke the ice.

"Do you, sir, not agree that the DunBrochs swept one tour de force coup when they obtained employment exclusivity from Corona & Sons?"

One hand was on his sleeve, the other holding her fan before he mouth. Her turquoise eyes pretended to wander around the room.

"Also, is it not hilariously ironic that Corona & Sons' almighty Jerome Corona has a single daughter as his only heir?"

She was surprised when he joined her in a soft giggle. His laugh was sweet, grave, velvety and heart-melting. She had to bite her lip from behind her fan to focus.

"Interesting indeed, I never thought of it," was his response.

"Both the DunBrochs and Coronas are absent tonight. Do you believe that is any ever so slightly extremely rude sign of hostility, after the offensively violent show?"

"Have no fear, milady. My brothers and I have have enough funds and power to buy the DunBrochs ten times over and send them back to the Old Continent in ships hanging off our zeppelins."

"I would not dare doubt your word, sir."

"I would never dare believe you would, most beautiful lady."

In concert they turned to each other. Her aqua eyes met his green gaze. His gloved hand reached out to hers. Gracefully they glided across the dance floor, arousing some gossip in their wake. A waltz, even though revisited with these eccentric native rythms, spun the dance floor into an orbit of couples precessing in the same way. They were gears on their axles. Electrons around their nuclei. Planets around their stars. As their bodies danced, mechanically and elegantly to the steps they had been brought up with, their words were a dance, and their minds were a dance. A dance of seduction, of illusion, of ambition, a well-oiled machinery of their time where each knew the part the choreography they had to execute intimately and almost naturally, as well as a piston knew how to shift and a lever knew how to lift.

As the gossiping chorus amplified, Baroness Anna of Arendelle pretexted lightheadedness due to a stupidly thick dress and tight corset to leave the dancefloor. Hans Andersen guided her up a set of fake marble stairs – marble would have been a tad too much in a zeppelin – and towards the enormous clock that almost reached the ceiling. The gigantic machine, Hans assured, was entirely the Duke's notion, he and his brothers had uttered some protest about the heavy metallic shape standind pointlessly in their ballroom. They gossiped about the bourgeosie, about their pets and eccentricities, laughing softly and often behind fan and gloved hands.

"The Corona parents were so spoiling of their only daughter they had the best genetic engineers to create a brand new flower, named Rapunzel after her. They transformed it with some bespoke virus, and now it glows yellow in the dark."

Anna genuinely thought Hans' point was entertaining.

"Mmh, Y.F.P." she muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Some protein name. My sister is by far the more well-versed in botany. I just sneak up to borrow her journals sometimes. You know, women of our rank have nothing to do all day, and Elsa doesn't really speak to me or anyone, so… we end up reading a lot. "

"I was just surprised a delicious lady such as you knew about this field of sorcery. Those pretentious charlatans carefreely play around with what is natural without grasping its essence or beauty."

It was a popular opinion amongst the bourgeoisie, save for the Coronas, such that it came to no surprise that their main competitors the Andersens would support such a belief. Anna, of course, as an aristocrat and a perceived misfit, was expected to have different and extraneous arguments.

"Can I say something crazy?"

"What?"

His dreamy emerald eyes shone with genuine curiosity behind the pale mask of courtesy.

"It is somewhat awkward to think that, for a leader of a Company that makes, owns and sells myriads of steamboats, zeppelins and ironhorses. Do you truly believe that what is made by Nature is infinitely superior and should not be meddled with? If it were the case bears would forge their own armours and mice would speak and play chess. They would have lavish balls hundreds of feet above the ground in a massive metal and helium edifice and eat mouthwatering cocoa that's been processed through a very careful cycle of temperature and humidity. But they don't, therefore the artificial must supersede the natural in all aspects possible and imaginable."

"Finely said, milady, but most of what we achieve is by climbing onto giants' shoulders. Birds knew how to fly and volcanoes made glass even before the first wheel was designed. What we have done, we have by merely copying them."

"A common belief, sir, but careful reflection, or alternatively, sitting with a book outside one's sister's door, may well show otherwise. Let us talk about mist, for example. We had those wonderful paintings of picturesque fogs and urban smogs back in the gallery at Arendelle. Elsa and I grew up with them, or rather I did since my sister would rather be reading in her room. All those paintings date from this century, before that, never a hint of low clouds painted over nordic lakes or hazy mornings over the port of Dovehaven. Just high clouds, fluffy and patchy in a pure blue painted sky. Before now, it can be deduced no-one _saw_ mists, at least not the way we perceive them now. And why do we view them as such, _now_ rather than before?"

"Because of a graphic fashion? Because painters invented fogs out of boredom?"

"Maybe, some think so. Even though I happen to disagree. My opinion is, because of the rise of the era of steam. Sun-powered constellite, constellite-powered steam that powers our engines, our cars, our ironhorses, out ships by sea and sky, impressionistic mist drifting in the air from trom their pipes and chimneys… Because, in the end, of what we invented. To answer your initial point, we may infer that Man created mist, in machines and in paintings, and Nature merely copied Man."

Indeed, the Baroness of Arendelle lived up to her reputation of educated pseudo-crazy extravagance, even in her ideas and opinions. Hans had to admit she played her role perfectly. Throughout the deeper-than-expected conversation, they had reached the top of the stairway, that curved around to the back of the giant clock. From behind the mechanism was fully exposed, so that the couple stood staring at a vertiginous darkness beneath and atop them, swarming with complex imbrications of golden cogs of all sizes, torsional springs, levers and pulleys, chains and weights. At the same time riculously large and mysteriously delicate, dauntingly repulsive and eerily beautiful, timelessly stable and powerfully in motion. In concert they silently watched in awe, as if awaiting for the twelve bells of midnight to ring in a few minutes.

It was Hans's turn to break the ice.

"Can I say something crazy? Look at everything here. The perfectly imbricated machinery, the exactly crafted weights and the chains of the precise right roughness, the springs that were tuned especially to keep the beat of our time, the needles and the cogs on their perfect cycles. And through the stained glass floral pattern, see the ballroom. See the pairs spinning with the same uniformity and measure, each identical to the previous, similarly clad, in every way alike to the golden gears. Such a perfect machine, all of this. A perfect game of illusions between the families and the companies. Artificially flawless, mercilessly powerful, that would crunch anything trying to stop it. A beautiful clockwork where both of us are but the screws and bolts. And you play your part in a fashion entirely admirable. You are the outcast the clock needs to tick. The falling weight the needles need to rise. You and I, youngest heirs ouf our families, are the youngsters the crowd loves to despise, the useless that the social engine could not live without."

As midnight approached, the immense weight that powered the entire clock, on its solid iron chain, was kicked up by a constellite-powered boost. As it rose towards them, Hans unexpectedly grabbed Anna by the waist, sweeping her off her feet. He caught the chain with a strong gloved hand as it passed, heaving both of them atop the ascending weight. Rocketing upwards so fast that fresh wind caressed their faces, Anna and Hans stared at each other without a word, smiling.

When they reached the top, the needles assembled atop the clock, and the twelve bells of midnight resonated throughout the room. The baroness and her suitor stood upon a thick disc, carrying sophisticated human-sized clockwork beings that successfully emerged out of the clock with their drums and trumpets, for the greatest delight of the awestruck audience. Suddenly Anna pulled Hans's hand, taking both of them aside the rotating platform. From the opening where the automatons performed poured in the bright golden light from the ballroom.

She was distraught: could she truly discern an illusion of _charm_ in these symmetric sideburns and that green gaze? Did she fall to the trap of her own game, beguiled and bewitched, losing all control and restraint? Had she burnt her wings flying too close to the sun? Was she falling from a world of gold and lace through an open door? Anna whispered:

"Can I- " _Oh and, 'away with this pretence!'_

As Hans started to nod in approval, she stood on tiptoes to drop a faint kiss onto his lips. He contemplated the sparkling turquoise of her bemused eyes.

"Yes, you can."

And he bowed down to peck her delicious pink mouth. Kissed her again. And again. Burning lips against burning lips. Gloved fingers intertwined. Eyelids shut in pure bliss. They were far away from the light, far way from the crowded ballroom, from the social conventions and the heavy engines. Far away from Extremesia and Centralesia, from this world where they lived as outcasts, into one where they were kings. A world for only both of them, hidden behind an open door, ephemeral yet eternal, impervious to the deafening bells of midnight.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Hans is WRONG, before you get mad at me for artistic license synthetic biology. The common method to transform plants is mediated via agrobacteria, not viruses. This is the third story in a row I write with elements of genetic engineering. Not** ** _at all_** **to do with my own dabbles in synbio… Bears making armours: hi, Iorek. Mice playing chess: sup, Reepicheep. Also note that Anna's argument, even though starting out similarly, diverges from O. Wilde's: whereas he proposes that artistic creation is at the root of perception (as Hans insightfully guesses) and therefore Nature copies human** ** _art_** **, Anna being Anna disagrees and suggests that science/technology shapes the way we view the world, meaning that Nature is inspired from human** ** _inventions_** **.**

 **Author's mistake of the day: I just saw Hans had a family name according to some person's tweet which is referenced on the Disney wiki, and a pretty good one too (Westergård). The main reason I didn't expect that is that in canon Kristoff asks Anna what his last name is and she responds "Of the Southern Isles"… I won't change his name for this fic though, since it's come up a fair amount of times before now.**

 **Announcement: New cover art is an attempt to represent Merida's exposition outfit as described in previous chapter. Drawn by me a while ago. Feel free to suggest alternative covers, if you happen to have better appropriate drawings, especially now that all protagonists are introduced! And as usual F &F, R&Review (please review!), thanks, love, and so on. **


	5. The Guardians

**Thanks everyone for everything. Basically, everyone was waiting for this, so here it is. This chapter ended up so long I had to split it in two, and I'm nowhere near finishing the second part (where you get to know what happened to Hiccup's glider). Human!Jack (~18 y. o.)**

faisyah865: Simple answer – here you go. Glad you're enjoying it.

 **Chapter 5, where a flashback occurs, a propensity of lists wildly appear and FrostCup cuteness is rather strong.**

 **CW: anxiety, very mildly sexual content, [mention of spiders, environmental content]**

* * *

The constellite lights of the Exposition zeppelin ever so slightly dimmed the brilliance of the starry night sky. The sea was eerily flat and black. The moonlight illuminated the deck of the Berk Entreprise Rumblehorn 12. While its colossal hull was gently rocked by the evening tide, the high chimneys breathed a shimmer of smoke amongst the galaxy. Save for the floating red flag atop the mast that beat like a little heart in the gentle breeze, everything was silent.

Hiccup stood leaning by the dragon-shaped figurehead, still in his ball attire. His black top hat, ornate with a blue jay feather and silver cogs of assorted sizes, was in his hand, symbol of his status and class. Identical little gears served as buttons for his cream-coloured waistcoat that matched the tone of the stiff bow tie. A blue-green handkerchief emerged from his small pocket, emphasizing the colour of his eyes. The straight dark trousers mostly hid his prosthesis. The slightly large jet black tailcoat almost resembled the folded wings of a bat from behind. He was staring into the distance towards the East, the endless ocean, the horizon and the Earth's curve and, even further, the Old land of Centralesia.

Astrid, by contrast, had already changed into her bedtime outfit. Her long, beige nightgown was oscillating in the chill wind, draping against the muscular curve of her leg. Pale blonde strands rebelliously escaped from her braided hair bun.

"So, how was it? "

"The ball? 'Twas like a… ball? Not much to say."

He did not turn to look at her. His voice was remotely calm, but Astrid better than anyone could sense the muffled storm under the velvety curtain. She was his oldest and closest childhood friend, as well as his partner-at-arms, as Stoick and the rest of the Berk Clan insisted he should have one. Following her mother's passing in an early glider test accident, as was the upper-class custom, Stoick had adopted her as his own daughter. While her mother's fate left her with anxiety nervousness towards flight, she had been trained in the usage of all arms, and outmatched the rather lean Hiccup as well as most of her peers in all aspects of her art. Her fame had reached further outside Berk Steel when Stoick and Gobber judiciously used her combat luxographs to advertise for their range of weapons. Even though their expertise fields differed, they knew each other well enough to detect the slightest hint of unrest in their partner's silence.

"Not the ball, the robot orang-utan playing cymbals on the clock."

"It was a baboon." She was well aware of his fine visual memory.

"Yippee, you're listening. The flight, Hiccup."

"I… This is hard to believe, but the girl at the show... she shot at me."

"How far south did you even go? It's a wild area, you could have…"

"What, gotten shot? At the very worst?"

He gave a small sarcastic smile.

"Point taken. Where were you?"

"Northwest of Plant Epsilon. There was a militia patrol. They're great shots, but newbies. They must have confused me for a- a _Drifter_."

"Did you see her? Did you recognise her?"

"Her bow and her arrows."

Astrid felt it was only a half truth. As was evident from the performance, both bow and arrows were unique models. Hiccup's knowledge of mechanics and metallurgy, especially on his own plane, could lead him to that deduction from anything: size and shape of impact, fragment form, crack propagation pattern…

"Where did she get you?"

"Left turbine. Some other archer broke the glass roof."

… But not if the projectile had shattered a plane motor at flight speed and exploded it.

"How did you fix that? How did you get back?"

"Typical procedure. Stopped both engines, deployed helium balloons. I escaped them and managed to get to Bartolomé, where I got a spare from a glider cemetery. Then I… you know… patched it up. There was no way I could get back in time if I stopped in town to get the roof repaired, so I just flew back without."

And that certainly did not explain the bandages under his tight left sleeve. Many other things were wrong. An elite archer like that girl would not be sent patrolling to such a remote location of scarce interest like the Northwest of Plant Epsilon. Hiccup would have telegraphed from Bartolomé had he stopped there, to save precious radiocommunicator power, even if he pretended to have no time to go to town. His new rotor would have been old and dirty, if not rusty and deformed. But it looked brand new, if mismatched with the untouched one. And last but not least, he would have messaged the truth to Stoick and her.

Her best friend was lying to her. Accusing a warrior she admired without properly knowing. But mainly, he was lying. A dark prospect. Very dark prospect.

"I'm sorry, I – I know you know you liked the redhead."

 _Liked_ the _redhead_? Was Hiccup going falsely emotional to distract her from the truth? He knew she would not be distracted, of course he measured how well she read him. He was simply hinting at her. Hinting that she should give up, change the conversation topic or leave. In a last attempt, she gave him a strong shove, tossing him onto the wooden deck.

He did not punch back or even protest, the way he would usually. Then his large green eyes met hers. And she felt it. There was something different, something mysterious. Something broken, like a half-healed scar, like a memory that still needed recall and absorption. Like an emotion that was not understood or tamed. A force powerful and strange that altered the Hiccup she knew. There was nothing she could help with, if he refused to open up to her. Noisily swallowing her saliva, she walked away towards her cabin.

Quickly scrambling back to his feet, he abruptly turned to her. From within his numbness, he wanted to apologise for shutting her out, and even for apologising if she insisted, and even for… But he knew she was right, for she knew him better than he knew himself. He needed time alone; to fix up alone like a damaged turbine, even simply to bring himself to be able to talk about it. Under the crust of numbness he had patched up like some makeshift armour, was an uncontrolled magma of raw memory, that he dared not touch for fear of… something. He, the intrepid aviator who flew alone over the Extremesian jungles and outmatched the militia of Plant Alpha, was afraid. And worse, his dread rendered him ridiculous. Maybe a stupid imagination game would help, he snorted to himself. He built up a silly mental sketch image of his memory as a dense forest, and himself as a glider diving straight into it.

 _Twelve hours earlier_

When Hiccup regained consciousness, the first thing he registered was the thin fabric sheet over his body. _A bed._ Clearly someone had brought him there. He sat up amongst the bedsheets. A stinging pain in his left arm made him wince. He saw his shirt sleeve had been cleanly torn off, and a fresh bandage covered his wounds from the explosion. His leather jacket was unbuttoned, probably to ease his breathing while he was unconscious, but all his tools and gadgets were still in his pockets and his prosthetic leg was still on. On the low bedside table lay his flying helmet, beside a wooden cup filled with what looked like water. _If someone wanted to kill him, they would not have rescued him in the first place to poison him now._ He picked up the contained and poured the liquid into his parched throat. The water was pleasantly fresh.

Hiccup got up without difficulty. The room was warm, slightly damp, small but not too low of ceiling. While three of the walls were tropical wood panels, the fourth one was… simply missing. Curious, he looked outside.

Sunlight poured gold through the green rainforest leaves. He was in a cabin, in the superior branches of a tree, just below the canopy. Below and around, similar objects were perched onto the branches like a flock of dark birds. Their construction was durable, if sometimes rough and out of mismatched woods. The treehouses were connected by diverse means: wooden planks, makeshift rope bridges, rusted metallic ladders, pulley systems or even some liana. Equally eclectic things were hung from them, from the usual drying clothes and shoes to the old loudspeakers, fruit and vegetable baskets, assorted weapons, metalwork tools, heterogeneous automaton fragments, a deflated hot air balloon, a broken glider wing, musical instruments, mirrors of different shapes and sizes, mismatched cookery items, old books with pages open on either side of the rope, badminton rackets…

But everywhere they were. Drifters. The old, the young, the female, the male, clad in solid fabrics in forest green, earthy ochre and gold, brown or scarlet, deep indigo or fruity violet, sky blue or saturated turquoise. Some had their hair dyed in myriads of colours, some displayed intricate vegetal tattoos, others carried pieces of engines like automatic harpoons on forearms or magnetic boomerangs, others decorated their outfits with rainbow-coloured feathers, emerald-tainted moss, iridescent shells and textured furs.

All were on the flight, on the jump spreading their fabric wings, walking along branches and swinging along ropes with their crooked sticks, always on the move not to lose balance, in a motion perfectly fluid and confident. They truly occupied the space in its three dimensions, the forest in its complete glory. But even more, they weren't on a strike or a raid, they lived, carried back fish from some river, nursing infants, teaching rudiments of combat and metalwork, washing clothes in wooden buckets, built new sheds, blew glass, repaired balloons, sang and laughed. The place was more than a nomadic settlement or a lost refuge; it was a haven of life, light and energy. A beautiful and mesmerising city of a kind Hiccup had never seen before, that had just opened its doors him in the last few minutes. A world whose very existence one could only _believe in_ once one saw it and _lived_ it…

"Hey, you're up."

Hiccup jumped. The playful voice was from behind, and _above_ him.

"It's just me, don't faint."

Hiccup turned around to see Jack Frost, hanging off the ceiling from a branch that grew between two planks of wood. His signature staff was in his hand. His dark blue cloak was off him, such that Hiccup could clearly see his face. He looked young, maybe even younger than Hiccup himself. His hair was the palest shade of blonde, drawing onto silver, as thin and light as flower petals. His juvenile face was well-proportioned. His chin was square and decisive, as if chiselled in white marble. The thin lips were parted into a mischievous grin that Hiccup would qualify of… Nay, he would not qualify it, that was hardly polite for a gentleman of his rank. He had a straight, well-shaped nose most men – and women – would easily envy him. Strong, snowy eyebrows that emphasised crystalline blue eyes, looking at him with bemused curiosity.

"Eh, hard not to faint. You kinda… turn me… upside down."

The silver-haired teenager's smile widened. In a supple gesture, he dropped from his branch, as light as a sparrow, to perfectly land on his feet facing Hiccup. The aviator took a step back to avoid being hit by the staff and stumbled slightly on the uneven floor. In a heartbeat, the Drifter had secured him by catching his shoulder. His thin, long fingers traced the line of Hiccup's spine, arousing goose bumps on their chill wake, then across his neck, his thumb pausing for an instant on the inventor's cheek. After the goose bumps, strangely, came warm tingles upon his skin.

"You're not bad yourself," the Drifter teased.

"Th-thanks, er, sir," mumbled Hiccup.

His gentlemanly education had hardly prepared him for such situations.

"Sir? Really?"

"Sorry, thanks Jack."

To his surprise, his interlocutor's eyes lit up with mirth. Not much was needed to amuse him, apparently.

"Great, you remember what I'm called."

The lean fingers traced the pale freckles on his face and played with the dark locks of his hair. Hiccup could feel himself blushing slightly in embarrassment. Where were his manners? How was he supposed to react? Was the teenager going to check his teeth like a stallion's?

"I don't think I've caught your name," the silver-haired boy said casually, with a lingering hint of amusement.

When he wasn't joking, his voice was so… different from most people Hiccup knew. Consequence of living in the wilderness amongst the Drifters, he guessed. It was at the same time rough and soft, forceful and gentle. The aviator's heart was pounding faster, he hardly registered why.

"But you've caught _me_ … _twice_ … Isn't that good enough?"

Jack broke into a frank chuckle. His laugh was clear, pure like an everlasting glacier's ice under the bright blue sky. Strangely, Hiccup found that soothing.

"The name's Hiccup."

"Hiccup?!"

Great, now the Drifter was hardly able to contain his laugh. At his name, as usual. He had to pat his shoulder to calm him down.

"People in my family have strange names so the evil spirits don't take them at birth, in my family," he explained patiently.

He mentally gave up on mentioning his last name was Horrendous Haddock. The man's shoulder was surprisingly muscular, for someone this skinny. Dangling off ladders and chains at the end of a stick had something to do with this, most certainly. Under the thin tissue of Jack's shirt, he could feel the firm shape of his muscles and the rounded shoulder bone that rose like a the talon of dragon's wing…

"Right, should I… _show you around_?"

"Yes, yes of course!"

By Odin's eye, what was he thinking? For the first time in his life, he was in a Drifter's camp, probably being one of the only men of his class to see it… and he stood there, marvelling at someone's shoulder?

"You have some steady coalstring wings there, I can see. Wish we had enough equipment at disposition to make those. But then, from the rest of what you're wearing, you don't seem too poor, do you?"

Hiccup knew the hatred shared between Drifters and his family. He had to be careful about the topic.

"My father dabbles in steelworks. I'm an aviator and inventor. We share a number of patents," he shrugged.

Jack let out an impressed whistle.

"You have some scratches on your arm. Courtesy of crazy mercenary. I guess you should be okay with some flying. If you feel painful, just tell me, right?"

Hiccup nodded.

"Ready?" asked the silver-haired teen, smiling naughtily.

"Er… AAAAAH!"

Before he had time to realise what was going on, the other man had pushed him into the vacuum. Instinctively, he deployed his wings and his dorsal fin.

With his saviour's presence by his side, he knew he was in no danger. And that was exhilarating. The wind beat through his wings and his thick dark hair. Adrenaline was rushing through his body. Around him, the motley groups of Drifters were flying just like him. He was amongst them. He saw them, they saw him. He was living what they lived every other minute. For a split second, he was one of them.

Then Jack forcefully grabbed him and swung him, with a gesture of his staff, towards a large tree. Both of them landed on a small dedicated platform, before a quite large hole in the tree's white knotty structure.

"Look inside."

The tree was _hollow_. In his many flights, he had stopped upon trees to witness anything alike. The Drifters had interposed bags of glimmering constellite. Roots and creepers slithered around them like brown snakes.

"It's a strangler fig tree," Jack explained. "Grows around another tree, as a parasite, until the tree dies and crumbles away, and that's what's left. The constellite interacts in a funny way with plants. Not only this tree, but all plants. They both have weird ways to interact with light. The roots 'like' those minerals; they bind really well with them and absorb the constellite's energy. When the plants harvest light, it stabilises the constellite and regenerates it. It suffers much slower damage when the energy stored used in darkness or exposed to water that way. I've heard it's the same kind of thing for all stones, but the drain-and-regeneration process is around a tenth of a second at most, we've observed that."

"Whoa." Constellite was known for its photosynthetic-like properties, and had been compared to leaves in its efficiency to harvest sunlight's energy. But even a well-versed inventor like Hiccup had no idea their properties interacted so organically. Wood and steel were distinct industries, and the likes of his father who exploited lumber were too busy cutting down large, healthy trees to provide excruciatingly expensive furniture for the aristocrats and bourgeoisie of Centralesia to pay any attention to a parasite that ended up as a hollow tree.

"Wait… how did you figure that out?"

"By chance," the Drifter grinned. "It was a quite intuitive thing to store our valuable stuff in here. Very hard to access for wild animals and pretty much anything else, but very easy for us. Then we found out."

Jack demonstrated, effectuating a perfect somersault through one of the holes to elastically land onto the brown sacks. The dim indigo light that illuminated him from below gave a surreal gleam to his icy blue eyes and highlighted the fine traits of his sculptural face. Hiccup was alarmed as a hint of sadness arched his silver brows. He fumbled between the bags until he could pull out a bit of liana. Dragging with both arms, he extracted the full creeper, with some help from the aviator. The plant was dried, lifeless and leafless, turned crimson brown, between their fingers. The two winged men's faces were at inches from each other, on either side of a hole in the strangler tree. The white-haired Drifter's voice was tainted with melancholy as he spoke:

"On the long term everything's dying here. The settlers from the Old Continent used to search here for gold and constellite. Corona & Sons and their partners were more radical and soaked this land with mercury to cluster the gold. The mercury is toxic, contaminating water, plants, fungi and animals. They soon realised that this earth had no gold to give, but that it had stone. So this became a stone quarry. When they exploited everything, they left, and that's about when we came. The ground in the quarry is lower than elsewhere, which allows us to live completely hidden from the colonists outside and protect us from the more dangerous wildlife specimens. But it also means the exploited ground is unstable and eroded by the rain. Hardly good conditions for anything to live."

"I'm sorry."

Jack thoughtfully threw the dead liana away.

"The Guardians must protect and preserve the land and remove what is perishing for what is young and healthy to grow," he stated quite solemnly.

 _The Guardians_? Hiccup looked around slightly concerned, expecting tall figures in black cloaks to surround them, holding keys and old scrolls.

Suddenly Jack burst into laughter.

"Look at yourself! That was a priceless face!"

Hiccup jumped, surprised by his guide's sudden good mood.

"The Guardians? _Where are they_?"

"Here. Around you."

"Wait. Are they trees? Creepers? Insects? _Arachnids_?"

That would have been repugnant.

"No, _the people_!"

Oh dear, so they were standing behind him in their dark hoods?

"What? All of them? You included?"

"Aye."

Hiccup suddenly understood, and joined the teenager in an amused chuckle at the bizarre misunderstanding. It was not long until he had to pause to catch his breath and wipe his tears. It was not often a gentleman could laugh without restraint. As he listened, he decided Jack's laughter wasn't a glacier, but a snowflake, both symmetric and delicate, fast and free, riding the winter winds unaware of gravity. Certainly the most beautiful laughter that had ever filled his ears.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Strangler fig trees are an actual thing.** ** _For real._** **Additionally, before you ask, this fic will most likely not have any MeridaxAstrid shipping. I dislike putting people into pairs and taking the remaining single people and pairing them up too for the sake of it. Like or hate, tell me in the comments. From here on, as quite heavily hinted in the previous chapter, morality is getting grayer and grayer (also why Hiccup is being so disturbed at the start of this). Hiccup, Jack, Merida or Rapunzel may do something you find morally wrong, or may consider something you find quite standard as outrageous. They can also change their minds on whether something is good. No all-black villains either. I don't do Good vs Evil. Be warned.**

 **Announcement: As you may have noticed before, I write content warnings for all chapters when applicable. Rating change will be indicated if necessary. I am taking the warnings quite seriously, because there's things you don't want to joke about like depression or racism etc. In between square brackets are the things you might not want to see in a chapter, like 'oh my god they're talking about polystyrene I hate polystyrene' so if you don't like/despise that you've been warned. Evidently some of these may be ironic/sarcastic. Right, hope you enjoyed this chapter, R &R, F&F, comment constructively, so many thanks xxx**


	6. A Veil of Frost

**Obligatory celebration: halfway through my exams! Thermodynamics and quantum physics were actually not that awful. For once, I had the afternoon off exams, so I finished this chapter. 400 first views, 10 first follows, round-number happiness. Thanks for everything… Right, onto the story. For once, we start off right where we left everything. Even though it's been cut into two, this chapter is still enormous. Human!North; Human!Sandy.**

faisyah865: Thanks so much for your continuous support, glad you're enjoying it!

theawsomest5: You are as awesome as your name suggests, thank you and hugs! And, no comment ^^

Noon30ish: Many many many thanks, as usual. I love HiccupxJack too… the gray-area comment was a justification mostly for the end of Rapunzel's chapter and most of Anna's, as well as a huge warning for this one. So everyone, DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU ;)

[I answer comments in the antechronological order, as long as the number is manageable]

 **Chapter 6, where Hiccup has a baby lightsaber, Toothless gets a mention and the readers are going to hate the author. If you do,** ** _please do it constructively in the comments_** **.**

 **CW: very mild sexual content, cultural appropriation, implicit homophobia, ['Race-bending' of canon characters, sepia-and-sepia morality, things fans are going to hate me for]**

* * *

"Jump off. We're landing on the ground."

Precipitately, Hiccup pretended he wasn't _at all_ awkwardly drooling over the silver-haired man's laughter. Starting to get used to it, he spread out his coalstring membranes and softly landed on the stony floor, just after Jack.

"You're getting pretty good. A few more days and you'd look like one of us."

"Thanks, I'm honoured."

Compliments were something he knew how to take, but that sounded strangely satisfying for his ego when it came from the Guardian's pale lips.

Before them, a tall, imposing man in dark scarlet slashed swiftly and powerfully at a wooden log with a pair of identical sabres. Before Hiccup had time to wonder whether he was showing off or sharpening his blades, the old man had cast them aside to reveal the carved figurine of a bear, as tall as Hiccup's hand. A bewildered toddler ran towards the man and eagerly snatched the new toy from his hands with lightning-speed thanks.

As he turned around to greet them, the inventor had a better opportunity to appreciate the man's appearance. He was as tall as he was broad. His skin was weathered like dark red earth with shallow wrinkles and scars. His cloudy gray eyes scanned through the youngsters, both impressive and expressive. Even though his eyebrows were still dark gray, his long hair and flowing beard were a lighter tone of silver. He wore a simple worker's outfit in the fashion of Northern Extremesia, mended so many times it resembled a patchwork of colours and textures of red. His sleeves and hood were lined in white wolf fur. Around his neck was a silver chain with a moon crescent pendant.

"North, Hiccup. Hiccup, North." Jack simply introduced.

"Delighted to – "

"Where's that guy from?" was the sabre-wielder's sole reaction.

"The Plant Alpha constellite raid at this morning's collect. He took down a DunBroch ship, outflew a bunch of their gliders, then he fell from the sky and fainted on me. Would have been rude for me to leave him."

Well, that was a direct way to put it. After all he had seen and heard, Hiccup could not be sure what 'rude' meant in context, but he was convinced Jack must have a somewhat different code of honour and conduct. North gestured inquisitively towards Hiccup's coalstring wings and his flying gear.

"I'm an aviator, a civilian solo flyer, so those things become handy when I need to jump off my glider."

"Did you make them?"

"I designed them. My father's factory has dedicated equipment to - "

"Come with me."

Jack and Hiccup followed obligingly as the massive man drew them to his own ground-level hut.

Hiccup could not help gasping at the wonders inside. Everywhere, from the ceiling to the roof, were parts of clockwork engines. Scavenged or recuperated through the years, the piecewise automatons were of all sizes, all shapes, and all purposes dimly glimmering with copper, steel or golden light. Pieces of weapons, toys, ironhorses, zeppelin engines, clocks, and many other objects even Hiccup had never seen before. The fracture surfaces of their metal carcasses revealed their complex machinery, all in pistons, levers, gears and cables. The largest cog Hiccup could see was half as tall as he was, while the smallest must have been no larger than a human tooth. Throughout the unkempt mechanical bazaar were diverse functional devices, simple but well-made: a water-cooling pipe with diverse wheels and tubes around it, for metal quenching purposes, a burning hot brazier under a thin, high chimney that dug its curvy way through the cramped space into the roof, a model train rambling through the workshop carrying the essential engineering tools…

"That's all the automaton pieces we've collected over time. We try to somehow fix them or repurpose them. North is the one who does the entire technical job, of course. He used to make toys up in New Burgos in Northern Extremesia, before his factory was bought by - "

"Jack, I didn't get him here to listen to your banter. Boy, have a look at this."

On a working surface was the central portion of a bourgeois pet that had been a furious fashion a few years ago: an oversized robot insect. They were difficult to make: light but strong, enough to carry their own weight and sometimes their owner's luggage or children… Hiccup could see that only the wing portion had been extracted intact from the clockwork bug. A typical constellite powder battery in the centre was connected by the small motors on either side. North must have cleared out the cables and fixed the wings onto a system of leather straps and copper buckles, simple but efficient and appropriate to fasten onto someone the size of a child.

The wings themselves were twice as long as Hiccup's arm, shaped like a scarab's, masterfully crafted into a matrix of coalstring and glasstring. Thin as paper, light as a feather, sharp as a blade, supple enough to support the vibrations of flight and strong enough to flap at fullest efficiency. Under the iridescent surface, the copper cogs and gears that transmitted the motion were visible. Even the fine branching grooves on insect wings were subtly reproduced. It was a work of technique and art of the greatest craftsmanship, of a level that remained greatly unequalled.

A thin crack slithered its way through the fine composite, from the tip halfway onto the centre. Only a very high and localised heat source could fix that, Hiccup realised, and North probably did not possess that.

"I see," the inventor mumbled to himself. "If you clamp both sides of the crack securely, exerting a very small amount of tension onto them to draw them together, sorry I know that's not very precise…"

But he saw that North and Jack had skillfully completed the task, creating hair-thin overlap between the sides on the table.

"Perfect," said Hiccup. Leaning onto his prosthetic leg, he opened a compartment containing a metallic cylinder that fit his hand perfectly. He adjusted his aviator's goggles onto his eyes, while the others put on soldering masks. Then he rotated a small switch at the base of the cylinder, releasing a plasma jet about as long as his palm, shining in a faint tone of constellite indigo. The plasma jets were copiously used at Berk Steel in industrial-scale machines, but Hiccup had designed an ingenious thermal lensing system to tune its length and miniaturised the system, at the expense of some beam coherence, to make it fit into his prosthetic. That could always become handy when it came to in-flight fixes.

"Whoa," commented Jack. "This. Is so. Hot."

North smiled behind his soldering mask.

Holding the device with both hands to stabilise himself, he carefully dragged the tip along the crack line, causing immediate fusion and self-welding of the tissue. When he was done, the scar was rough and ugly, but the wings had regained their function. Jack checked that they could flutter elastically and smoothly.

"Tooth is going to like that," the silver-haired teen said happily.

North nodded in agreement.

"The only Guardian who can use these," Jack explained to Hiccup. "As small and light as a child, as fast and agile as a hummingbird. It took her years to master the art of flying with them. They were designed and reworked to hover on the spot, so she has to propel and stabilise herself while flying. She got shot down by a rifle during a mid-herb-gathering encounter with a patrol, hence the damage."

A few minutes later, Jack and Hiccup had left the workshop hut and walked around the camp. The earthy space was surrounded by a fairly high calcite wall, vestige of the former stone quarry, covered in roots and creepers. Tall trees grew within and without, Guardian huts around and in them. About one and half hundred Guardians lived there, many of whom were children and teenagers. A third was white of skin, while the remainder was native or mixed-race. According to Jack's explanations, they lived on local resources, hunting, fishing and gathering and lumber. They raided the colonist settlements for constellite, helium, metal, weaponry and occasionally medicine. They possessed their own hot air balloons and a few gliders obtained in their attacks, even though they had little to do with these without zeppelins. All parts of what they hunted or stole were used as such or repurposed, such that scraps of ironhorses and engines ended up as bowls, plant pots or jewelry…

"Hey, Sandy!" Jack waved cheerfully at a small figure.

As a response, a series of silhouettes of golden light danced all around them, on the barks of trees, metal of huts and even the puffs of steam from the nearby water boiler. The man who operated the rotating mirror chamber was short of stature, draped in baggy yellow linen with mismatched buttons sewn onto triangular embroidered patterns and connected by small chains. His hair spiked out rebelliously from his head, black at the roots and dyed golden at the tips. His eyes were small and slanted like a cat's, surrounded by jet-black curved eyelashes. Around the Guardian were a flock of children, excitedly contemplating the tales of light that escaped and spun around them from the machine of mirrors and cut-out shapes when he lit the candle at the centre and cranked the squeaking rusty handle. Sandy simply nodded at Hiccup and Jack with a smile as they passed.

"Ah, the Dream Projector!" Jack exclaimed. "Sandy was brought by the colonists from his native Western Extremesia, to work on the ironhorse railroad from Bartolomé to Fairylight. He managed to escape and found us. He's a guy of all trades really, from repair to medicine and cooking, but he's always had a thing for mirrors, so he made that machine of his own. Children and grownups always get carried away by the images. A bit of light in dark times."

In addition to the struggles with mercury poisoning and erosion, as well as the altercations with the likes of Corona & Sons, the Guardians maintained sometimes hostile relations with _other Drifter_ _camps_. Even though the contacts were minimal, the rivalry usually meant occasional ambushes, scavenging and sabotage.

"Guardians live for their freedom," the silver-haired youth commented, "we'd rather raid them and run away laughing than sit down, negotiate and trade with them. We're not selling our independence against a Company-like system for an illusion of comfort and peace, waiting for them to deceive us and stab us in the back while we sleep soundly in our beds. We live for the fun in life, all of it and right now. Life's too short, blink and you'll miss it. It's like those fleeting images from Sandy's dream machine. As some Guardian said once, dreams turn into wonder, wonder into hope, hope into opportunities, opportunities into memories. The most important is that these opportunities are fun."

Jack's eyes glistened with mirth in the afternoon light, and his whole body radiated with a vitality that Hiccup could feel vibrating through the air around him. He was truly alive, there and then, with every muscle of his body and until the tip of his thin hair, beautifully iridescent like snow in bright sunlight. Hiccup simply stood admiring, his amazed eyes wide open. Until Jack suddenly jumped and placed his fresh hands over them.

"That reminds me," he spoke mischievously, "I've got a surprise for you."

Hiccup could _hear_ the grin sculpted onto his statuesque face. The Guardian guided him through the camp, nudging him gently as they walked over some roots. Hiccup was too distracted by his touch and the fierce excitement it diffused in him to think about what the surprise could possibly be. Such that even though it was fairly obvious, when the silver-haired man eventually removed his hands, the aviator's jaw dropped.

"Toothless, you're all right!"

He ran to his plane's side and hugged the fixed aircraft as if it were an oversized pet.

"… Toothless?" asked Jack without even concealing his amusement.

"Er… people aren't supposed to hear that." Hiccup was flummoxed. "I talk to my glider when we fly alone. The… nickname is to mock the Berk Entreprise Dragonfangs."

"Ah, I like that!"

In his excitement, Hiccup had momentarily forgotten about his damaged glider. He eagerly checked the turbines, the wheels and the tail. The glass ceiling, expectedly, was missing, but everything else was in place and ready for usage. Hiccup quickly picked up some glass fragments and debris that would help him identifying the type of the mercenary's arrow and bow. A new sample of constellite was even in position to power the engine.

"How did you even…"

"I've got good people," Jack joked. "Basically, the aircraft is _so well-designed_ that it essentially broke into two between the cockpit and the tail with the explosion, creating no major other damage."

Oh dear, that was embarrassing. Hiccup knew that the junction between the front and rear of his plane wasn't ideal, since the custom cockpit had been enlarged for the convenience of long flights, while the tail section had been scavenged from one of his father's gliders. At least that had served as a lesson.

"Before you ask, for the new rotor, we replaced the one that was blow up with a brand new one. Let's say we've got a few lying around with nothing to do with. North is an ace at that kind of stuff."

"North wasn't alone!" protested a juvenile voice from beneath the wing, echoed in a chorus of giggles.

Hiccup and Jack saw the children, aged between nine and twelve, busily and merrily polishing the ends of the new screws. They were all natives, garbed in flowing linen with bright feathers and leaves in their hair.

"You helped?" said Hiccup, curious but slightly disturbed, kneeling by a dark-skinned boy.

"Sophie and I soldered _all_ of these ourselves!" the kid said proudly, showing some cables beneath the carcass. The work wasn't the cleanest the inventor had seen, but he doubted he would have been able to fare much better without all his equipment and in the emergency. He could get that improved later when he got back.

"That's great, Cupcake," cheered Jack. "Someday you'll be able to build machines like this on your own like Hiccup did. Right now I think North wants his tools back at the workshop."

The children immediately ran away, with a satisfied chortle. One stopped before Jack and gently tugged his trousers.

"Jack, do you think I'll be able to be like _you_ someday? To fly and raid the settlers and drift away like the wind? To lead the Guardians with energy and enthusiasm the way you do?"

The silver-haired Drifter looked at him, sky blue eyes straight into earth brown eyes, and considered the question.

"I can't read the future, you know, Jamie. But I'm sure that when your time comes you'll make a far better guide for the camp. Just remember to love all, the small and the big, the straight and the crooked. Now go away and have fun while you still can."

The child simply nodded and dashed away after his companions. Hiccup was thoughtfully leaning onto the new helix, so Jack lightly jumped onto the wing to sit next to him. As his thigh brushed past his elbow, the aviator felt a fresh wave rush through him, as if his blood had frosted into tiny snowflakes.

"Wait… you're… the leader of the Guardians? You haven't told me!"

"I haven't said that much about myself," the teenager admitted. "I was born in the Sunkenlands on the Old Continent. A barefoot street child, with not much else but a smile and swift hands to catch what I didn't have. I was sent to an orphanage, of course, and some old aristocrat became my benefactor. Probably intrigued by my _mysterious_ traits and my hair, one of those crazy fashions they had at the time.

"They put me in a foster family in Canis Minor, not the gentlest one to say the least. I escaped the beating and humiliation, and I was once again in the streets, alone with my liberty. I encountered some other kids like me, and quickly became the leader of my gang. They couldn't take us the only thing we had, our fun, those policemen and their mustaches. We raided bakeries, scavenged covered markets at night, lived on roofs between steaming chimneys and blackbirds, staring up at the starry skies and the belly of colourful zeppelins at night.

"Eventually they caught us, the militia of Canis Minor. They think that there were far too many people on the Old Continent, and not enough on the new, so I was sent aboard on a steamboat with the convicts and the rest of the riffraff towards Southern Extremesia. They got me to work in a cotton plantation, but after the first whippings my feet carried me away, as they always do. I found this camp, which was hardly half its current size at the time. The natives and a few migrants here were misfits who had escaped from the colonists and lived in darkness and fear. They immediately believed in me, thinking I was their Feathered Snake come back, their white-haired benevolent god who had taught them how to live and love. I liked my new gang, so I played the part, structured the camp, led the first raids and brought back the first sacks of constellite, and after three years that's where I am now. Still smiling and barefoot and free with my band of outcasts behind me."

Hiccup dropped his arm from Jack's leg, struck by the revelation. His green eyes scanned the teenager's frail, bemused and content stature. What he felt when he looked at him was _wrong_ , the Berk clan and company would say so, his father would agree. Furthermore, as he was just reminded of, Jack was nothing but a thief, an outlaw, and Hiccup was a gentleman and heir.

Suddenly, he had realised the _harm_ Jack had done to these Drifters, these free people who now called themselves Guardians. They had been peaceful and hopeful, and Jack had made usage of the same _charm_ he had on Hiccup himself to conquer them. He had taken advantage of their fear and belief, just like he had bewitched the aviator in his loneliness and fascination, to impose upon them his own way of life. Hiccup now knew how to put a name on the sensation he felt when Jack addressed him. He decided to call it scorn. It somewhat calmed the confused tempest deep in his intestines.

"Hiccup, are you all right?"

Even in his concern Jack sounded entertained and carefree, nothing like a responsible leader the way a man like Stoick was. The aviator, unable to contain his anger, blurted out:

"These Guardians of yours, you've made them into pale copies of yourself, into scum, into robbers, into _enfants terribles_ that live as if there's no tomorrow, the way _you_ had lived in the Old World. You exported a lifestyle from Centralesia, that of the street gangs that fly above roofs and chimneys, dark alleyways and robotic cars, to people that might have been savages, but had a past, a religion, an honour and a _humanity_. They believed in you and you deceived them. Even their dark-skinned children are named _Jamies_ and _Sophies_ , in the Centralesian fashion! On top of that you exploited them into forced labour! You swamped their culture like a veil of _frost_ covers fertile soil: making it whiter, colder and lifeless. Who even gave you that name, _Jack Frost_? Did you style yourself a _god_?"

And a god he was, in all his beauty so perfect it was disgusting. A god of careless domination and joyful destruction, in many ways worse than the Companies the natives had attempted to escape. Jack took some time to choose his words.

"How do I know that? The Moon told me so. But that was all he ever told me. And that was a long, long time ago."

That was the last straw. Hiccup had had enough of this irrational folly, these endless jibes and jokes the silver-haired man gave in place for answers. Slowly within him, a crust was forming, thick and uneven, shielding his overwhelming emotions from his logical mind. It gave him an uneasy semblance of comfort.

"Sorry, I need to get back. Thanks for everything."

The aviator pushed the Guardian off Toothless's wing. Of course, the teen landed with exasperatingly perfect grace. He climbed onto the cockpit and started the constellite engine. The aircraft picked up some speed on its wheels, before taking off the eroded soil. Instants later, all that was left of it was a line of fluffy steam, parting the amber and scarlet of the sunset sky.

Jack had not even noticed the apology. He remained motionless, staring. At once curious and afraid of what was happening inside him. He vaguely wondered whether the pain had been worth the fun. Oh, how quickly things had turned from sweet to sour. Maybe it was a good thing Hiccup had left before the situation could further worsen. However, he also wanted the young aviator to come to him and _say sorry_.

 _After the Exposition ball on the Berk Entreprise ship_

"That was an admirable job, son."

Stoick the Vast's thundering voice made the inventor jump. Clearly he would not have the night to himself.

"Thanks, I simply cast the doped crystal into – "

"I saw the records of your flight seismograph. Crossing that with your radiocommunicator's location when you messaged and your constellite consumption, we should be able to locate that Drifter camp you got your fixes in. Gobber's already working on it. Finally we caught that scum, and we, the powerful Berk Steel, will bring them down. I'm flying over to Plant Alpha with the Nadder 45 tomorrow, we'll recruit some DunBroch mercenaries to support our mission."

"Er… great! That was a long day, I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow."

The makeshift crust that hid away his emotions suddenly burst. As he walked across the deck, he was too overwhelmed to think. And for once, his feelings decided for him. Before he could make sense out of them, his intuitions took over. He softly knocked at the door to Astrid's cabin, neighbour to his.

The female warrior, her sleepy hair in a straw-like mess, held up her pillow like a shield. She saw the light in Hiccup's emerald eyes, and it was uncommon enough to be disturbing.

"Astrid, I know this sounds crazy," he said simply, a strange intensity in his voice. "But you have to listen to me. _You have to believe in me_."

 _Meanwhile, in the Guardian camp_

In the near-absence of artificial illumination, the galaxy lit the night sky in all its glorious splendour. Its blue light enveloped Jack Frost like a cloak of loneliness. The moon reflected off the porcelain mug he was holding. Crouching at the end of a tree branch, in perfect equilibrium, he contemplated the object with a dark smile. A robber at heart, he could not have stopped himself from picking up the small, simple thing in the glider's cockpit.

The mug was marked with a dragon, the emblem of Hiccup's Miseralian clan. So that was what he was, a being of fire. Jack had always known he was _different_.

Different, that was what the inventor and the Drifter would always be. Despite everything. A barefoot prince and a gentleman. The manners and the liberty. The mischievous and the logical. The iceberg and the flame.

The engines of society and Nature, in their implacable machinery, would do nothing but keep them apart.

They would have to bend the mechanisms, to stop the spinning gears and the running chains, to believe in each other once more. The power was strong enough to destroy both of them, but both were used to a life of drifting above danger and death. Plus, certainly _that_ would be worth the fun.

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 **If you hated this chapter's end, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. No-one is good or bad, not even Jack and Hiccup, people can make decisions they regret, I have said.**

 **Fun fact: In case you're wondering, Jamie & Co are ethnically closest to Aztec, Sandy is the in-universe equivalent of Asian (who actually were brought to the New Continent to build railroads) and North is similar to Native American, although with some African heritage, which explains the beard and the sabres (the bear is an evocation of a totem). In a fantasy-universe inversion, Northern America is mostly a Spaniard-type colony, for some historical reasons, hence New Burgos – equivalent of New York while somewhat reminiscent of Burgess. Follows stronger population assimilation , culturally (North's clothing style) as well as religiously (the silver moon necklace instead of the cross, because I'd like Spain to be still kind of Moorish at that time - but then you can interpret the pendant as a mark of his allegiance to the man in the moon, if you like). When I watched RotG, I found the fact that the whole cast was white and middle-class rather striking. The children the Guardians protect are all over the world, but only those are ever seen on-screen. Jack, North and Pitch are white too. I wanted to give it an in-universe spin, haters gonna hate. Note that I don't particularly like or dislike racial/ethnic dialogue, this fic has a lot of American readers so I thought the vocabulary might be more familiar to you. **

**Author's mistake of the day: The mini-lightsaber. For my defence, it's never mentioned as such in the description and (so far) used for entirely different purposes. It is after I designed the device in my head that I realised some outreach scientific author (Roland Lehoucq) has mentioned a similar device as a realistic possibility to make a lightsaber. If you're wondering, this object is more physically realistic. I am not responsible for any accidents due to you trying to make it in your garage workshop :P**

 **Announcement: Not really an announcement, but as you noticed this has mentions of Aztec mythology, which may become increasingly important. If you want to read more about it (not required to understand the fic, hopefully, but might help pick up some of the references) you can look into Quetzalcoatl, Tezcatlipoca or the Five Aztec Suns (hope I haven't spoiled too much). I may try and give a quick appendix summary soonish if I have time. Meanwhile, R &R, F&R and stay awesome. Cheerio! **


	7. The Stuff of Stars

**Yippee, exams done! I will try to update a chapter a day for the next ten days or so, but I don't know how well this will work out… Thanks for everything, you're great. I spent my first afternoon of freedom feeding ducks and trying to pen this chapter, I meant it to be shorter and lighter than the previous, but it did end up quite long and dark… hope you like it anyways.**

Noon30ish: thanks a massive lot as usual! I actually do whip out the artistic license on many things; I simply don't mention them in the footnotes since that would take forever :P (stone career in tropical ground on post volcanic site? Totally legitttt..). For scientific notions, as you've probably guessed, I have some idea of what I'm doing. For historical/mythological/literary points, I generally know the gist of things, but I did end up having to google Aztec gods, mining in Mexico and a few others. What's tricky but fun to write with the steampunk AU is that it spawns from graphic and costume arts, so the detail in description is crucial. Also, it has to be close enough to actual historical reality, socially and culturally, so a bit of research is needed there. So yeah, just to describe to everyone reading this what writing in this kind of AU is like, hope that inspires you to play around with it… J

 **Chapter 7, where Maximus and Augustus have a thing for apples, a frying pan wildly appears and Rapunzel doesn't quite know what she wants.**

 **Disclaimer: *insert disclaimer***

 **CW: very mild sexual content, mention of implicitly racist artwork, [unquiet characters, frying pans, more deviations from canon]**

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A day without the Gothel had to be a good one.

And a good day had to be a barefoot one.

A silent as a mouse creeps, Rapunzel Corona ran down the sleepy corridors of the Crownsworth Manor. The first morning lights drifted dimly through the thick gold-trimmed curtains, projecting pools of a dim purple glow onto the cold ceramic floor. The short train of her lilac velvet dress, arranged in a tasteful sophistication of flowing folds, hardly brushed the black and white tiles. From under her simple brown leather corset bloomed a loose white shirt, like a lily just born on a fresh misty day, embroidered in vaguely iridescent crystal drops of morning dew.

It was a foggy morning indeed. As Rapunzel stepped into the elevator cabin – the very first elevator cabin in the whole of Camfordshire, her father would endlessly repeat – she saw the estate outside through the one glass wall. A thin blanket of white had fallen over the emerald hills, the endless grassy spreads and the forged ruins in the distance. The young woman cranked the handle to close the lift's heavy iron doors, cast into flowing vegetal motifs. When she lowered a lever, the weight was simply released by a constellite-powered mechanism. A number of chains and pulleys softly creaked against each other as the small cabin was lowered to the ground floor.

As she exited the lift, the familiar scent of damp hay immediately filled her nostrils. While her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, she found her way through the stables to her stallion's box. Augustus was a small, earth-brown horse crowned with a single white star between its eyes.

"Good morning, Gus-Gus," she fondly murmured.

The young woman gently groomed its mane and side, before feeding it an apple that was eagerly devoured, with an enthusiastic neigh.

"Whoa, somebody's happy!" called an amiable voice behind her.

"Flynn! You came!"

"I could hardly sleep, my body clock is still set to the time of Eastern Extremesia. The private zeppelin that took me here is one of the fastest we have, you know."

"Hopefully you won't doze off during the day then," she gently mocked.

Both exchanged an amuse glance. Rapunzel noticed he had swapped his colonial clothes for a more reasonable riding outfit. A dark blue asymmetrical jacket displaying two lines of Corona-Sun shaped buttons covered his shoulders. The ensemble was completed with vanilla breeches, riding boots and dark leather gloves matching his elegant top hat. The heiress put on her own boots over woolen cream and gold stockings. She rolled up her simple, long braid with a pin and adjusted a flowery hat over her head with her scarf.

Flynn playfully patted the side of his Maximus, a clever dappled stallion he had grown up with. Between the two spacious boxes was Major's, Ella's mount. The slender gray horse was too busy munching on some straw it hardly noticed them as they swiftly rode out.

Strands of untied golden hair whipped at Rapunzel's face as they galloped through the mist. The damp cold completely awoke her and cleared her thoughts. They hardly needed to talk as they rode. Of course, the rest of the household was still in bed. Miss Ashcroft was no morning person, especially when Mother Gothel was not around. The earliest servants were probably starting to stir in the kitchens. That had been Rapunzel's best chance to talk to a jetlagged Flynn in private. Through the thick air, she could distinguish the silhouette of the Crownsworth Manor, its brick courts and its limestone façades, its bridges over the Wellis, its numerous chimneys puffing a waft of steam into the gray air, crowned by the rounded shape of Flynn's docked zeppelin, all faded into the shadow of an impressionistic fairytale.

"Hey Punz! Your hat!"

Rapunzel pulled Gus's reins to turn around. In her thoughtfulness, it had escaped her notice that her hat had caught onto a low branch of one of the giant oak trees on either side of the path.

"My apologies, I meant, Mistress Corona, I believe a certain oaken branch was jealous of your delicate headdress…"

"Mister Ri… Fitzherbert, I am infinitely grateful for your precious support. I ignore how I would ever fare without you…"

"Mistress Rapunzel, allow me to return this beautiful object to you. The tint of the lavender brooch truly complements your fair hair and brings out your emerald eyes…"

"You flatter me, Mister Fitzherbert. I cannot accept such compliments from a gentleman as accomplished and distinguished as you."

They laughed heartily at these caricatures of themselves, of courtship and politeness, amidst the foggy park, far away from the house, the servants, the Gothel, the rules and the conventions. They laughed like back them, as if the mist had erased the passage of time since they ran and played around the oaks as children. As Rapunzel tied her hat back onto her hair, they started off at a more leisurely pace, riding side by side.

"Do you always ride like a man, or is it only to spite Mother Gothel when you send her away to Dovehaven?"

"Only when I wear my mother's cropped crinolines, which is mainly when no-one is there to stop me," she admitted with a lingering smile. "Or maybe when I want to impress you."

"Impress me? I don't think that's necessary. Seeing how much you've changed lately impresses me far enough. You've blossomed into a beautiful flower, Punz. But I can see through the rich velvets, the petty hats and the frilly shirts that you're still that young, witty, optimistic friend I used to know."

"Truly? I'm not sure I can say the same about you. You've grown well, evidently. You look handsome and confident, successful in affairs amongst the Companies as well as the ladies… tell me, what do you think about Ella?"

"Miss Ashcroft? She is undoubtedly comely, polite, gentle… with these manners and that smile, she could win any man's hand she desires."

"The Gothel gives her chores: mending clothes, washing up, cooking with the servants, cleaning the ashes in the chimney, even though Father would rather use the constellite stove… Ella is a deeply brave and patient soul, Flynn. Given enough time, she will have any man's _heart_."

"So you do believe in our union? Did you bring me out here to give your support?"

Rapunzel suppressed a sigh. The years had frosted a picture of a dreamy, innocent-looking blonde child into his eyes. He hardly saw the influence of the Prussoroman nurse and the passage of time had etched onto her skin.

"Maybe, maybe not. I believe a man certain degrees of freedom in his life. Certainly, there are external conditions imposing a few things, but the choice yours and only yours to make."

"You have been taught well in the rhetoric arts, I see. In my place, what would you do now?"

The heiress thought for an instant. Then a flicker of malice lit her green gaze.

"I would catch that before _he_ does."

She tossed an apple from her saddlebag into the air, towards Maximus. Caught off guard, the horseman clung onto the reins, nearly falling off as the horse pounced to catch it. Oh, Maximus was an oversized dog that was far too fond of apples, and Punz knew him too well…

"Does my life really have _that_ little importance to you?" he panted, once he had somewhat calmed his stallion down.

"Maybe, maybe not," she repeated wittily.

She felt his warm breath on her neck as he slowly approached her from atop his horse. An agreeable wave of heat ran down her back.

"By the way, I believe this is yours?" he whispered, handing her a flat, round object that exactly fit her palm. Flynn must have snatched it away from her sleeve when he had returned the hat. Oh, the sneaky thief. The golden metal box, attached to a similar chain, was marked with her family's emblem. Inside was a small constellite watch that doubled as a compass when she turned a minuscule handle. The delicate golden cogs in their regular, precise motion were painted with miniature planets, moons and suns. The lid was a slightly incurved mirror.

"You still keep it with you?" he asked, with some surprise. "I was just curious to check what I thought it was."

"Unfortunately I don't really hide constellite in it to complete the planetarium globe any more. Mother Gothel considered the globe too dangerous to stay in the house, so it got moved out. But I still keep it close by, it reminds me of Mother."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"It's all right, Flynn. But back to Miss Ella, will you propose to her?"

" _Would you?_ " he repeated flatly. "This has been arranged by your father, and clearly, with the Gothel's support. I trust he knows what is best for his foster daughter. Eventually, we'll get to know each other, and she'll get used to flying around the Southern Isles of Eastern Extremesia. With time, it will work out, Punz. Trust me."

"Trust you? It hardly regards me. My only concern is your evident reluctance."

"Punz, you don't need to worry for me, I…"

"How does it matter? We've arrived."

The young woman gracefully dismounted, copied by her childhood friend. Maximus and Augustus were tied to the dried out fountain, covered in fine cracks, fallen flowers, damp moss and dry lichen. Only the bright metallic sun of Corona crowning it showed that the ruin was counterfeit.

"I'm still too small, you'll need to help me on," she pleaded.

He courteously lent her a hand to climb over the fountain's edge. As she pressed her medallion onto a discreet orifice, on the column that supported the iron sun, a stone panel swiveled at the feet of a naiad's graceful moss-covered statue. She seemed to indicate the secret entrance with her dry jar, a mysterious smile sculpted onto her lips. Of course, every Corona had some token that could unlock the door, which served mainly as an attraction to impress distinguished visitors. Smiling at the memory of the olden days, both young people sank into the secret passageway and onto the darkness.

Rapunzel took Pascal into her hand as he shed light onto the small corridor through his multicoloured nematic crystal skin. The chameleon automaton playfully licked her finger with his torsional-spring copper tongue. Flynn gave it a seemingly affectionate pat. After a short walk, they reached a larger subterranean space. On the grotto's wall was a mosaic identical to that by the main entrance alleyway. Jerome and Evelyn Corona, in their most sumptuous attire, smiled while holding an infant Rapunzel, her bouncy golden locks as well as her emerald eyes gleaming in the darkness along with the pearl, diamond and gold details of their garbs and jewelry. Pascal's light rapidly dimmed, overpowered by the fluorescence of the pool of golden lilies. The ceiling was opened by sunnier times to allow the flowers to feed from sunlight. The blossoms, named by her father after his only heiress, had been craftily engineered to glow in such a continuously bright fashion.

"They're even more stunning than I remembered!" exclaimed Flynn, awestruck by their brilliance and beauty.

"These lilies will never cease to amaze me."

"You mean these rapunzels?"

He knew her annoyance at the flower's name only too well.

"Oh, why do you have to," she teasingly wailed.

"To be fair, it's kind of a running joke across the ocean."

"Really?"

"Well, only amongst the small circle of informed people, but rumors spread fast…"

"Is any of that _spreading_ your doing?"

"Maybe, maybe not," he echoed with a touch of humour.

Oh, his distance, his manners, his jests. Eugene knew how to make his way into a locked heart. Flynn knew where to steal the key to _her_ heart. Rapunzel knew every smirk of his lips, every cock of his brow, every frown of his Grecian nose. But underneath he was a changed man. So similar, yet so different. So foreign, and yet so familiar. One of them might have been ice, the other steam, even though she could hardly assign who was which, but she and Flynn were made from the same stuff. She wanted to explore the darkness beneath his polite skin, expose the mechanics and clockworks of his mysteries to the harsh light, feel every nook and cranny, every tooth of every cog and gear. Release the steam trapped under the ice and reveal the icicles under the mist, and finally _belong_ to him. She wanted him for herself, and herself _alone_.

Quite unaware of her disquiet thoughts, the young tradesman followed her through another corridor in the labyrinth underground. Each step released the fond memories of Crownsworth and the carefree times, where pretense was a fleeting game and masks could be blown off in laughter at any occasion, like a swirl of spring flower petals. She had been a princess, he had been her prince, climbing up her high tower with the sole rope of her golden hair. And then his touch at her juvenile blonde braid tickled her, and then he was Flynn, she was Punz and they laughed until they could hardly breathe. Before he knew it, they had reached the Eastern Salon.

The subterranean resting room was painted in frescoes of Eastern Extremesia, tawny silhouettes garbed in bright feathers yielding offerings of gold and constellite to finely dressed men bearing the golden sun sigil, on a pale backdrop of angular pyramids, rainbow-coloured zeppelins and blurred rainforest. On the trompe l'oeil columns creepers of all forms climbed like snakes, while bright garish fruit poured from golden cornucopias. Rapunzel and Flynn hardly had time to contemplate any of it, before a swarm of dozens of flying creatures tumbled from the ceiling right towards them.

"Ouch!" Flynn yelped as one of the clockwork bats from the precious Corona collection slammed into his shoulder.

Immediately, Rapunzel drew her golden locket and pulled a button near the chain. A metal handle unfolded around the watch face in an intricate swivel of delicate golden gears, while a large golden disc expanded around the mirror lid like a flower opened its petals. Wielding the frying-pan-like object with rapid strokes, she cast away the automata dashing at them. And somehow managed to hit herself in the head with her weapon in the process.

As the last robots flew past them, Flynn had to make an effort not to burst out laughing. He remembered Mrs. Corona's answer on why a frying pan in her daughter's toy: _"And why not? Remember, in your darkest hour, to go fry yourself an egg."_ Mrs. Evelyn had been an eccentric and fashionable woman, a speaker of silly lines aspiring poets believed as universal truths, a powerful patron and a dedicated wife, as well as a caring and gentle mother. But Flynn snapped back to reality.

"Are you… are you all right?"

"Y- yes," she stammered.

He softly parted her golden locks to check out her temple. With a gentle gesture, he massaged the skin to avoid the appearance of a visible ecchymosis. The Gothel would have been furious. She withdrew slightly at his touch, as a tide of dizziness washed through her. She wondered whether that was the impact's effect or his fingers'.

"You saved me, O noble princess," he whispered dreamily, recounting their childhood dreams.

She simply smiled back as they moved on. Through the small salon was the entrance to the tower, that magnificently fake disrepair that stood to remind and warn all that Time took all in its passage, and ever so slightly more importantly that whatever the Coronas wanted, they would have. The base was a stone-floored circular space, a large ovoid wicker swing hanging against the wall, padded with thick white cotton cushions wide enough for both of them to sit on. A single golden rope connected the basket to the top of the tower, and folded back down to the floor. Jerome and Evelyn Corona had meant to install the second elevator in Camfordshire there, but their architect, some man renown around all of Cornucopia, had protested, arguing for the symbolic value of heroic physical effort amidst the impermanence of human things and the wild forces of Nature. Mrs. Evelyn had only accepted because it was a nice story to tell her guests.

Discarding her riding boots onto the ground, Rapunzel climbed onto the swing by Eugene's side. She tucked her feet into the cushions and leaned against his shoulder. Through his jacket, she could feel his warmth pouring onto her arm. Oh, distracting sensation. With a practised gesture, he yanked at the rope, bringing to the top in a few pulls. They were heavier than they had been as children, but his strength had also grown over the years. Rapunzel found herself vaguely disappointed at the brevity of the ride.

Her bare feet treaded over the old carpet, releasing a chorus of dusty and dreamy scents. This had been one of their favourite hides as children, ideal for their princess-in-tower games. Over the recent years, it had only received few visits. The blinds were closed, and even though thin linear beams filtered through, it was specks of bright indigo light that illuminated the room.

"So _here_ 's where you moved the planetarium!" the tradesman understood.

It was a sphere as tall as half a man, an old version of Jerome Corona's own Earth globe that followed him everywhere in his travels. Brass continents were marked in the finest detail with roads of ground and rail, cities and counters, isles and peninsulas, harbours and zeppelin ports… The surface was delicately covered in a web of dashed lines, miniature mountain ranges and rivers and regularly spaced letters. The slow rotation was operated by a beautiful clockwork system, each little brass kink of a gear visible beneath the ocean's glassy, subtly wavy surface.

But the most striking was the light. Blue dots of raw constellite had been deposed onto the surface, projecting an indigo night sky onto the semispherical roof. In their younger days, the preceptor's son and his closest friend had worked at mapping the stars from the manor, and recording their work onto the globe. It was only natural to mark each celestial body with a fragment of constellite, the stuff of stars - 'borrowed' from the vast parental collection – that in turn printed a bright, slowly revolving star onto the dark vault of the room and the mysterious backbone of the Universe. The household was always hostile of the children playing with pure unprotected constellite crystals, especially the clumsy and precious little Rapunzel – Jerome Corona had been too busy to seem to care. The mineral, in its original form, was prone to sudden releases of the energy it stored, into rather powerful explosions. Usually, it was only handled when carefully shielded into some container. However, Punz seemed to have her way with it. At her touch, the crystals were never violent. Flynn even swore that they slightly grew into tiny dendritic fractal flowers as she had them bind to the surface of the planetarium. Logically, the Gothel rejected the presence of such a hazardous device in the manor, so she had it moved out. Flynn thought it was not such a bad idea.

As always, the two of them stood silent, gazing at the constellite-lit sky, tracing the trajectories of each speck as it slowly moved its way around them with bewildered eyes. The Corona heiress and her mentor's son had been taught that constellite formed from what the sun fed the earth, from the growth of plants and animals and their death, then the deposition of their remains deep under layers of sedimentation. At sufficiently extreme conditions of pressure and temperature, in the absolute subterranean darkness, these remnants rapidly crystallised into a translucent mineral that could capture and store the energy of photons. It was only when mined and first exposed to the light that the constellite gained its characteristic indigo gleam. And now the stuff of stars' light was returned to the greatness of the sky. A puny makeshift darkness, in the cramped rooftop of a tower in ruins, perhaps, but at least it was _theirs_ , and it revolved around them.

"In all these years, I never forgot how simply magnificent this is," he commented. "All that time spent with you shall live on, as long as our planetarium rotates on its springs and gears."

It sounded like a phrase he had learned, but adapted in his own fashion, and that was beautiful.

"I want to see what the stars look like on the other side of the ocean," she said, almost matter-of-factly.

In the darkness his hand found hers.

"You shall see, someday, no doubt. It is a difficult luxograph to take, but I may get experts to try their best."

"No, I want to see it from my own eyes. I hardly believe in the luxographs and their chocolate rivers."

"That was an illusion from your funny little mind. What you see is hardly the truth."

"But at least it will be part of my night sky, my universe, and I will believe in it."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Flynn, take me with you. Your zeppelin is the fastest Corona & Sons has. Show me the stars as they appear in Eastern Extremesia."

"But… your father? And the Gothel? And Ella?"

"How do you care? It's just about you and me. About the people beneath this night sky."

And she completed with a simple, innocent-sounding, ladylike and pointless word:

"Please."

"I should not."

"Please."

"I cannot."

"Please."

"I shall not."

"Please!"

"I… oh, all right. Rapunzel Corona of Crownsworth, will you be my wife?"

Still holding her hand, he was down on one knee, pulling out a ring from his jacket's pocket. She barely distinguished the blue-diamond-studded golden shape through the obscurity. Royal blue was the colour of the Ashcrofts. _Oh, the traitor, the criminal,_ she jubilated. Constellite stars danced on both their hands, faces and bodies. Slowly, she retracted her fingers from his. In the short silence that followed, they could almost hear the planetarium's clockwork engine ticking on its orbits.

"You are a liar, a scoundrel, and a smoldering traitor, _Eugene Fitzherbert_ , and I hate you. For every minute of the rest of my life I will continue to despise you. I will never marry you! But... if you accept to be my _Flynn_ , I will come with you."

She paused for an instant, letting both of them weigh her words.

"I'll be your spouse. I'll be your shadow. Just let me have _my_ Flynn, and you and I will be together, forever, just like you want. Everything will be the way it was, when we were children. I promise. _Just_ — _let me_ — _have him_."

Of course she was lying, but could she really speak the truth? Could he truly accept had she said she intended to _fix_ him? To make him someone he had never been, because she _loved_ him for all of that? Could she open to him the contents of a mind she hardly knew or understood?

In the semi-obscurity, the answers hardly mattered, for he was her to fix, to play with, from that instant. From that very instant, whatever Mother Gothel may have said, Flynn was hers, Eugene was hers, and the Universe was hers. The Earth might rotate against its axis, and revolve around the sun, but the whole of the galaxy and the cosmic infinities revolved around _her_ , slowly and inexorably in darkness, on sophisticated machinery of lead axles and golden gears, and around her _alone_.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Yes, Augustus 'Gus-Gus' is the mouse from Cinderella, that becomes a horse for a while. The CinderVerse saved me on that one. Nope, I don't want any (alive, present) OC's in this story. Just because I am annoying. That being said, the whole apple business somewhat reminds me of Augustus/Gus Coverly, of Tom Stoppard's wonderful** ** _Arcadia_** **. Yes, that's the not-at-all-subtle shout-out I was referring to in the first Rapunzel chapter (and in this one). Crownsworth itself is inspired both in name and appearance from Chatsworth, even though with fabrics somewhat reminiscent of Stourhead and an underground gallery that is not too unlike Parque Güell in Barcelona. Hope that gave you Wanderlust ;)**

 **Announcement: Prize for all reviewers for this chapter! You can give me the name of any object you want to figure in the next chapter in your comment. I promise to write it in. Be creative! (This story is rated T, please choose accordingly. A living person/being does not count as an object.) And like every time, R &R, F&F, please, please (constructively) review. **


	8. A Star and her Stuff

**Took me longer than I thought to write this. There goes the shorter and lighter chapter. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks for everything.**

 **Chapter 8, where things start to come together and the author cannot be bothered to write author's notes.**

 **Disclaimer: *as usual***

 **CW: violence, racism, [corsets, composite weapons, McGuffin]**

* * *

Merida's muscles were tense. Perfectly immobile. Her ears were acutely open to each and every fluctuation in the thin air. But her eyes saw only one thing. Her target.

Then she released all tension.

The corn kernel, propelled from the teeth of her fork as she hit the other end, flew through the dining room, above the empty wooden tables and new carpets. Its trajectory ended right in the crystal fishbowl of Elinor DunBroch's pet coelacanth. The creature immediately devoured the snack before diving away from the surface. At the view of his sister's aiming feat, Hamish's jaw dropped. Hubert's eyes widened. Harris let out a shocked gasp. Shooting them a darkly naughty glance, Merida got up, gave a mocking curtsy and stomped away from the breakfast table.

She had been forbidden to attend the arms display, once more. Her mother had thought it better for Merida's own education as well as her family's diplomatic relation with economic partners. Fergus DunBroch himself admitted it safer if his daughter did not randomly shoot at potential associates with their own rifle, as during the last session. So that while he parents were being advertised the full range of latest-fashion, cutting-edge weapons from one of the best armourer companies, Merida was confined to her asphyxiating zeppelin cabin. And to top it off, a dance lesson was planned in half an hour. _A dance lesson_. Something an accomplished young woman should go through. Something her mother had insisted on planning on that very day to spite her, she was sure.

With a long sigh, she slammed her room door behind her. She should better get ready for the class. She tossed her simple leather boots onto the wooden floor. With some effort, she managed to extract herself from her white linen colonial dress and throw it onto her four-poster bed. That was when the torture only started. She pulled out a steel cage crinoline from her cupboard and heavily dropped it onto her hips. Then, she slowly laced up a leather corset, painstaking hole after painstaking hole. Mrs. DunBroch had recently made her the most _exquisite_ present of an automatic corset-tightener. With a grimace, she inserted both ends of her corset's ribbon into their dedicated slots. As she lowered a lever, with a frightening buzz, an arrangement of disgustingly elegant pulleys and gears sprang into action, pulling the ribbons until the corset's ivory spokes bit against her ribs. Breathless, she lifted the lever to end the excruciating pain. That would have to do. She pulled a pale green, frilly silk dress over her head. The tight half-sleeves compressed her arms, the corset imprisoned her lungs. Sweat immediately oozed out of her skin, embedding itself into the delicate, embroidered fabric. Beads of perspirations were visible on the ridiculously low and lacy round neck of her gown. She hastily wiped them off with the palm of her hand. The second stage of ceremonial self-torture had only commenced. Merida gave a glare of full hatred to her all-time arch-nemesis. The metallic hairbrush, its merciless teeth viciously glowering with entangled strands of bright red hair, stared back in pure cruelty. As the object prepared to unleash its sadistic wrath onto her, a knock was heard at the door.

Relief washed through her. Fate had given her a short respite. She ran up to open the door. And immediately found herself trapped in a steel-strong grip, the razor-sharp edge of an enormous axe right against her neck.

"One move and you're _dead_."

She, Merida, firstborn heir of DunBroch, who could split an arrow in flight and terminate a giant robot bear in mere minutes, had been caught in the most elementary of traps. She was boiling with rage. Her assassin, standing against the wooden-panelled wall, was holding her from behind. Had she wanted to give up her last scrap of pride and called for help, she would not have been able to. She decided her last thought would be that, at least, she would hardly have to attend that dance class. She would die in a stupidly tight dress, weaponless, with nothing in hand but a treacherous _hairbrush_ –

" _Ouch_!"

The grip around her temporarily released as the assassin gasped in pain, nursing a hand painfully scraped by dozens of metallic hairbrush fangs. Quickly, Merida swiveled around and brandished her improvised weapon against the axe. Lunged forward. Parried. Slashed. She was fast. She was strong. But in a few seconds, she had been pushed back onto the bed, with the battleaxe once more hovering above her. In her hand was a neat stump of brush. She saw in astonishment the metallic monster lay in defeat, cleanly chopped into four pieces fallen beside her.

"If you want this to go quickly, don't try that again. Now, why did you explode a civilian aeroglider over Plant Alpha yesterday?"

Merida looked up at the axe-wielder. And what she saw made her eyes widen like a lemur's. Clad in her characteristic fighting gear, a pleated leather skirt, an matching red corset covered in assorted silvery buckles and straps for her scabbards and shoulder protections, elbow-length combat gloves wrapped in black ribbons, munitions, guns, knives and crossbows hanging around her metal-skull-ornate belt, legendary round shield tied around her back, platinum blonde fringe and braid framing her famous traits, proud gray blue eyes looking down at her, was –

"Astrid Hofferson of the Berk Clan! I'm-your-greatest-fan-ever-I-keep-all-luxographs-of-you-in-that-draw-near-my-bed-you're-my-star-I-can't-believe-to-see-you-in-real-life-please-please-please-I-want-to-see-how-you-do-that-with-your-axe - "

Astrid raised a blonde brow in confusion. The fearless warrior who had stolen the audience's breath at the Exposition was rather literally drooling with admiration in front of her.

"Okay, er, first things first. Why did you shoot at that glider?"

Visibly, the other girl was abashed. Her unkempt orange curls bounced lightly against her shoulders as she stammered:

"I just wanted to show Mother what I was capable of. She didn't let me join the patrol, so I proved that I was entirely able to do what none of our mercenaries can…"

All right, Astrid had hardly expected that. Hiccup had arranged for her to join the group aboard the Stormfly to the DunBroch aircraft over Plant Alpha to demonstrate the usage of the Berk Steel weapons Stoick had meant to advertise to the militia. She had been meant to find Merida DunBroch, whom they had identified from the Exposition's guest list book, to investigate the true motives behind the recent events. She had been meant to hide in plain sight, using her status as a representative of Berk Steel. And obviously, she was doing it her own way, axe in hand.

"And the Weselton Exposition performance? Was that another tantrum?"

"Er… yeah… Astrid-can-you-sign-me-an -"

"Do you realise what you've _done_? The pilot from glider you blew up is the only heir to Berk Steel, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III. And that trick of archery in the arena was perceived as defiance to the Weselton clan, and by extension, the whole of the Southern Isles Company who sponsors it. Your little teenage crisis could have ended all trustful trade relations between the DunBroch clan and its main employer Corona  & Sons with Berk Steel, the Andersens' Company and the rest of colonist families around Eastern Extremesia! With all the arms and militias all these have, that could have launched a _war_!"

Was her _idol_ chiding her like her mother always did? Merida was starting to realise she felt quite afraid.

"Er… says the… girl… holding an axe right over my head?"

The redhead was making sense, Astrid admitted. Sometimes she felt like Hiccup was speaking through her words. Consequence of listening to him complaining for years… His peaceful approach to talking was very much unlike her.

"Sorry, I need to go back to the demonstration. I'll see you again."

Weapon in hand, the blonde warrior stormed off the cabin. Before leaving, she added through the door:

"And if you even _think_ about leaving this room, I'll cut your head off."

Merida sat up on her bed, dumbfounded. She had just met Astrid Hofferson. Who happened to be have been holding an axe just over her, which she found quite _amazing_. She had even _fought_ Astrid Hofferson. Well, for a few seconds with a hairbrush and in a highly uncomfortable dress. Put in a more heroic way, Astrid had rescued her from the monstrous nightmarish hairbrush and a dance class of death with a sweep of her axe. And what an axe, what a beautiful weapon it was! Its admirable proportions, its highest-quality steel blade, the splendid system of silver levers, cogs and pistons along the handle, and even that new trigger that suggested some recent updates! She could hardly believe her eyes, the famous female warrior, the legendary Shield Maiden of Berk Steel, the star, the stellar, the astral Astrid Hofferson…

The astral Astrid, meanwhile in the armoury, was deeply focused. She felt the DunBroch's evaluating gaze over her skin. Stoick's words rippled the surface of her mind as he advertised:

"We have lately been working on multiple-range custom weapons. This example combines the long-distance, high-precision firing power of a mechanical constellite rifle with the extreme short-range and mêlée efficiency of a good old-fashioned axe."

Loading her upgraded weapon onto her shoulder, she actioned a small lever that automatically unfolded an imbrication of metallic parts that slid and developed over each other along the handle. The barrel expanded ahead of the axe blades, away from her. Confidently aiming at the rather large target through the just-deployed steel sight, she pulled the trigger. Automatically, a mechanism of gears rotated to load munition after munition, firing a tight group of successive constellite bullets towards the centre of the target. As soon as the impact occurred, as had been choreographed, the target's spring-loaded machinery shot five flying boomerangs in different directions. For a fraction of a second, she inspected their trajectories. And then, she moved.

She lifted her shield to her left. One of the projectiles bounced off it. One down.

Sliced one just before her into two with a swing of her rifle-axe. Two down.

Heard the whistle of a boomerang behind her, jumped and kicked it with her boot. Three down.

Cleanly cut another as she gracefully landed. Four down.

Pushed a lever on her weapon, launching a series of mechanisms to switch bullet type. Shot at the boomerang just above her. Five down.

As the boomerang exploded into a myriad of minuscule shards, she was back to immobility, on one knee. Her axe stable in one hand, her shield, resting against the floor, in the other. She hardly heard what Elinor DunBroch had to whisper to her husband. That last demonstration, after a series of more conventional shooting and fencing ones, had come to an end, and she had to focus on the next task.

Stoick and his hosts briefly resumed the conversation started before Astrid's arrival, while she had been with Merida. Mentions to the Drifter camp, while vague about both size and location, were made before agreements could be settled. The number of mercenaries, the equipment and the time required to clean off the nest would, of course, have to depend on these technicalities. Funding questions were crucial. But even more so was the discussion of a long-term partnership. Berk Steel was traditionally under the hegemony of the Company of the Southern Isles, while DunBroch mercenaries had recently become part of Corona & Sons' militia. The Coronas' business had emerged as a competitor to the Company's over the recent years, even though clear signs of hostility had only shown most recently with the Coronas' notable absence from the Weselton Exposition. If Berk Steel and Corona joined their forces against the common Drifter issue, the balance of economic, social and military interaction in Eastern Extremesia would be profoundly altered.

"Thank you for your interesting offers and your extensive demonstrations, Mr. Haddock," customarily said Elinor. "Miss Hofferson, my greatest thanks for everything you showed us. My husband and Lord McGuffin will need an instant to debate over all your propositions. Please find our new guest lounge at your disposition."

As soon as those of the Berk clan left the armoury, Astrid ran to find Stoick. Talking was not her best skill, but both she and Hiccup knew how the Berk Steel leader trusted her. For unlike her foster brother, she _resembled_ Stoick. In a way she resembled him _more_ than he could resemble himself. Weaponry was the air both of them breathed, but while Stoick fought a war of markets and negotiations, sustaining his status as one of the Colonies' most prominent businessmen, she unleashed her energy wielding her axe and her shield for the good of the clan. Stoick was the Extremesian settler embodiment of a Miseralian's success, but Astrid truly lived up to the values of Miseralia – old-fashioned take-it-down-with-an-axe-and-then-lop-its-head-off kind of values. Such that she knew that Stoick would understand her thoughts, respect her arguments and agree with her principles. She had to try and convince him, as she and Hiccup had planned. While hoping that Merida did not blow up something again while they talked.

On the other side of the closed armoury door, Fergus DunBroch tapped his prosthetic foot nervously. He knew his wife had chosen Lord McGuffin, amongst all friends and advisors of their clan, to attend the display for a reason. After all, Mrs. DunBroch was the one responsible of their business affairs. Fergus was a brave warrior and a leader of men into combat, but he was hardly a negotiator. She was, however, and a rather fine one. What made him uncomfortable were how she had behaved recently. Since she had achieved that spectacular contract with the Coronas and settled the clan zeppelin in Plant Alpha, Elinor had been striving to establish her status as an accomplished woman in colonial Extremesia. Luxurious embroidered dresses, garish feathered jewelry, exotic pets, toiletry automatons, oaken furniture in these fashionable flowing floral forms and assorted stained glass panels had been ordered to the zeppelin for Merida and herself. There was even word of her telegramm correspondence with some General friend of the Coronas. Such that at that very instant, Fergus knew the Lord McGuffin was on his wife's side, even though he could not be sure which side _she_ was taking.

"Offering our services to two powerful partners will assure a greater safety to our affairs," McGuffin claimed, "so if Corona & Sons finds no gold in Plant Alpha and sinks on the morrow, our men will still have plenty to do with Berk Steel's defense against the savage raiders. Furthermore, we will be viewed amongst the companies of Extremesia not as the greyhound of Jerome Corona but as an attractive new market. This new contract, shortly established after the first one, will do fantastic publicity in our name after the, er, unsettling events of the Exposition. There are possibilities of expanding our clientele to the Weseltons, the Stabbingtons and even the Andersens of – "

"Corona & Sons is the most powerful business in Southeastern Extremesia," Fergus spat, "challenging even the all-powerful Company of the Southern Isles and its royal mandate up north. And our men are warriors loyal to a cause, not potatoes you can sell in bulk."

"And which loyal cause, Fergus?" Elinor intervened. "The Coronas are admirable in every way, but which cause are you defending by patrolling over their precious Plant Alpha? A lulling sense of safety you and your men uncomfortably bathe in, wondering when they can raise their anchors again and go campaign against savagery. Don't you see there's your cause, right before you, worth being loyal to? Equilibrium. Unity. Peace. By offering our services to several partners to combat the Drifters, we are unifying the face of Eastern Extremesia, overruling the petty wars between Andersens and Coronas, Haddocks and Bunnymunds, Dingwalls and Stabbingtons. We are not playing small games on the chessboard any more, we are _pillars_ _under_ the chessboard. We are not the pawn of the crowned Crownsworths, we are a power as strong as theirs. We rally all merchants of gold and steel, silk and fur, wood and flour, against a common enemy: the bloody shadow of savagery that lurks in the dark jungles, that drifts above our beds at night to stab our children in the back and fly away with our weapons and constellite. There is no difference with the time of tribes back in Northern Cornucopia, and the alliances to fight off Viking barbarians. Balance, for the good of our family, our clan and all of the Colonies of Eastern Extremesia. Balance, _that's_ a cause worth fighting for. "

He could see the stars glowing in her dark blue eyes, the flame distillated by her favourite General, which grew at the mention of expanding civilisation against savagery. And, between the strands of dark hair that fashionably fell before her eyes, subtly sprinkled with a hint of pearly gray, he saw a mother, strong and willful as a she-bear, ready to tear apart the engines and their sophisticated little pieces to defend her family. A mother and a wife he loved. He knew how right she was, how their mercenaries would agree to become proud warriors once more. Their clan in Extremesia was young, still made out of warriors at heart rather than experienced soldiers of fortune. They lived for combat, not for patrol. She was right, this time, but she was growing ambitiously _crazy_. Briefly he made a mental note that sending Merida away from the familial zeppelin and Plant Alpha for some time would do her the greatest of goods.

The said redhead was still confined to her room, wondering why Astrid said she would come back. So was she agreeing for the autograph after all? Would she show her what she could do with an axe and shield? Or would she humiliate her further? Would she slice her into –

"Great. I hope you haven't smashed anything while I talking to my father and while he talked to yours."

The blonde warrior burst in through the door, weapons still in hand.

"You came back!"

"No time for chatting. You pack your stuff, I pack mine. Mr. DunBroch and Mr. Haddock have agreed you are spending a week on the Berk Entreprise Rumblehorn 12 with us. You will attend the exposition as a guest to the Berk clan. Your training with weapons will happen with me and the other members of our academy. We're leaving at noon, be ready. I need to go collect my stuff in the armoury."

Astrid dashed out once again, before peering through the door at the bewildered DunBroch heiress.

"And Hiccup, the scrawny one-legged brunette aviator. If you shoot at a single hair of his again, I'll break both of your legs with great pleasure."

The Berk star walked through the corridor, a grin plastered over her face. The plan she and Hiccup had designed the previous night was working smoothly so far. She was just slightly dubious on how helpful the redhead would prove to be, despite her unparalleled archery skills, seeing her limited cooperation. Oh well, fate only could tell.

As its complex golden clockwork slid, spun and stretched, Merida's travel safe snapped open. Distractedly, she threw in her bow, quiver and reflected on a selection of blades. Ah, and clothes would be needed too. And… a new hairbrush. She would be living with her idol for a week. For a week, she would learn with her, fight with her, eat with her, chat about combat with her, amongst her ludicrous collection of axes, shields, guns, crossbows, knives, swords, hatchets, all that magnificent _stuff_ … For a week, she would be by a star and her stuff.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Miseralia is on the Old Continent, north of the tropic of Misery. This story passes the Bechdel Test. I always figured that Merida would have her fangirl moments if she met a star in her predilection field. That's kind of my headcanon, I guess… She probably also has an intimate thing for weapons, even though not as much in the mechanical/metallurgical sense the way Hiccup does. If you enjoyed Astrid's axe-rifle, you should check out RWBY in case you haven't yet done so. Seriously, it's full of amazing weapons that double as guns. And has pretty wonderful costumes and soundtrack.**

 **Announcement: Seeing how regularly I (plan to) update this story, I realised that asking for next-chapter suggestions in reviews won't really be possible. Oh well. You can still** ** _try_** **. Please R &R, F&F, stay awesome, thanks xxx**


	9. Tooth

**Thanks for everything. I had fun writing this, I hope you like this story's take on Toothiana. Jack might be slightly OOC, since he's not infatuated with anyone in his film and I do want to make him develop and grow up a bit. Feel free to complain in the comments! Anyways, hope you enjoy**

 **Chapter 9, featuring an unusual pairing and a bit of snow.**

 **CW: mentions of racism and cultural appropriation, [costume porn, purple prose]**

* * *

The rainforest's luxuriant canopy was as green as his eyes. The playful morning droplets amongst the leaves clattered as clearly as his laughter. The distant sounds that travelled through the rainforest could almost be muffled echoes of his voice. Even the supple and thick entanglement of tree branches, covered in richly brown bark, was reminiscent of his dense dark hair.

And in every of these incarnations, Hiccup mocked him, scorned him.

Jack closed his eyes. For the hundredth time that morning. Not that it would help. As soon as he reopened them, the inventor was everywhere again. The day that had passed since he last saw him felt like years, and his hope had thawed into moroseness. He shook his head in annoyance, snowy strands jostling about his temples, then jumped into the warm damp air.

The momentary lack of gravity was ever so slightly lulling. But as he flew, bounced, drifted, swung himself, waved at his peers, a grin pasted over his pale lips, his mind was elsewhere. Jack Frost was an automaton whose core had been removed, still in residual motion due to the neat tick-tock of the little clockwork parts. In his centre, he saw only steamy emptiness.

Ducking under the woven vegetal self-growing fence that surrounded the infirmary, he made his way in. The space was large enough to accommodate a dozen of mossy beds. Most of the remedies they used came from the forest around them, from the sticky leaves to tend to wounds to the many herbs that cured digestive troubles. Only a minority had been obtained from the colonists during raids.

"Don't cry," said a gentle voice. "I'll wash it and keep it safe with all the lost teeth. When you think about it, or when you come back here to see it, you'll think about all the most precious memories of your childhood. These memories are everything."

Around the corner, before Jack's eye, the dark-skinned little girl reluctantly parted from her tooth to hand it to the medic. The latter was a small woman, older than Jack by only a couple of years. Her large almond-shaped eyes and her tanned light brown skin betrayed her mixed heritage. She had most probably been born to a Centralesian settler father and a native mother. The Drifters had found her in a basket by a stream, with nothing but some swaddling clothes and a small ibis tattoo on her thigh. She had been named Thoth, after that bird, but her growing abilities as an herbalist, healer and dentist for the community had earned her the fond nickname of Tooth. She was respected and beloved amongst the Guardian, as a sisterly as well as a motherly figure, despite her young age. Jack and Tooth had always been close, having even been a couple for some time, before it became obvious that she reciprocated the feelings her young yellow-haired anaesthesist assistant Sandy had for her. The mixed-race woman and her chief had remained very good friends.

Her long wavy dark hair fell onto her thin shoulders, strands and sections dyed in metallic green, warm orange, electric blue, silvery violet and vibrant indigo. The rims of the knee-length skirt and the short puffed sleeves of her white linen dress were coloured in similar hummingbird-like hues. A low leather corset served as a belt around her slender waist, carrying a number of scalpels, powdered herb pouches or magnifying glasses. Her limbs were covered in emergent veins, pale scars and shiny metal bracelets dangling off her wrists and ankles. The bright quetzal feathers, shells and cogs that hung off the net-like fabric tied under her belt were assorted to those woven into the small braid tucked behind her ear. Her python-fang necklace and matching earrings framed a round face with a broad forehead, dark eyebrows, a small, pierced nose and full lips. Her purple eyes shone with the fierce melancholy of someone wise beyond her years.

"Tooth! How are you enjoying the wings?"

She turned around to see Jack, as her little patient dashed away. He was remarkably able at faking a good mood, but she immediately felt something was _off_ with him. His pale fingers, wrapped around his staff, obliviously fidgeted on the rough wood. His ice blue eyes shone blankly, echoing none of the enthusiasm on his pursed lips.

"The balance is feeling a bit different, but they're great! You guys did a great job on them!"

He noticed her carefully testing the waters, attempting to cheer him up with that overflowing reserve of generosity within her. He wanted it to work, but knew his hopes were paper-thin. Her smile slightly dropped as she measured the amplitude of her leader's unrest.

"Should we… go for a walk?" she suggested lightly.

Sandy would be entirely able to manage the infirmary and the apothecary. The quiet golden-haired Guardian brightly smiled and waved at them, while meticulously extracting the morphium from the pods they had collected into small glass vials to prepare the anaesthetic mixture.

On ordinary days, Tooth wore no wings. She and Jack walked side by side, barefoot and quiet, hardly feeling the irregularities of the dusty soil beneath their blistered feet. Distractedly, she showed him her newest tooth acquisition.

"Have you ever seen a more adorable lateral incisor in all of your life? Look how she flossed!"

"I need to ask you about Hiccup," the silver-haired Drifter simply said.

"You love him."

Her purple eyes widened intelligently. She was always blunt, always motherly, always insightful. When it came from her, he was not surprised or offended. But if that love existed, Jack was hardly able to pinpoint it. When he was around Tooth, he always found it hard to cast a shadow to her overwhelming positivity with his personal problems. He cared about her, and had the impression it only made things more difficult for her.

"This is not about me, this is about the camp. He said something about us Guardians that I never heard before."

"Whatever he said probably affected you in a way you can't measure, if you don't recognise and accept what you feel for him."

"He said I betrayed onto my people, our people who made me a leader. He said I imposed a Centralesian street gang lifestyle onto the Guardians, erasing their – erasing _your_ cultural identity."

"Your aviator is a bourgeois colonist. How can he criticise what you've done when he works with the Companies?"

"Hiccup is different."

"That's what you don't get. You must draw a line between emotion and fact to clearly evaluate the situation. And that starts with understanding you love him."

"He deeply hates me, he scolds me and he scorns me. How can I love him? His word is that I am worse than _they_ will ever be, because you _believed_ in me and I _used_ you by imposing every aspect of my way of life onto you. My irresponsibility, my mockery, my criminality. The thievery, the sabotage, the scavenging, it's all me, isn't it?"

"But the Guardians, the constellite in the tree, the steel and the medication for all of us, the quarry we live in, the safety and the happiness around us, that's _also_ you! Ask anyone here, Jack. You haven't let anyone down. If there is one person here whom you need to prove it to, it is _you_."

"It's the whole point. I thought about it. These people don't notice because _I_ transformed them. Because I altered in the deepest centre of themselves who they are and the goodness that they have. Because I froze their heart with the point of my staff. Look at you, you're kind, you're brave, you're strong, and under my command you raided, stole and fled."

"Well, without you I'd be lost somewhere in the rainforest, hiding in fear from the settler patrols, hunting for my food without a roof to sleep under by night."

"You'd be free, and you'd be yourself."

"But I _am_ myself, Jack. And that is why I and the rest of us believe in you. Because you love each and every of your people, as they are."

"No. I love them as _I_ made them, as bad copies of myself due to my poor style, and that is the only reason they admire and imitate me."

As a medic, she felt the pain and suffering of those she tended to, in imagination, sometimes more than they did themselves. Years of practice had dulled the empathic sensations, but Tooth was still _aware_ of what was going through Jack's mind. There was no way of going back, she realised. The carefree loner was gone, and the self-conscious chief unknowingly bound to another soul had replaced him. Like a child let go of a lost tooth, they had to accept that what was life had detached into memory. Their leader had changed, and in consequence the tribe had to change. If there was one thing she could do, it was making him accept and perform this change before it turned back onto him and devoured him from the inside.

"So you have to change things, Jack. If you can't be happy as they are, what do you propose?"

"I need your counsel."

"I cannot aid you, because I don't see what, in this camp, is wrong today that was still right yesterday. The colonists are still searching for us, and still failing at that. The raids at Plant Alpha and Bartolomé are reasonably successful, just as they were. There are sacrifices, but no progress can be made without some. The soil and the life here are dying, but this place is still the best we have. The native Huacan tribe is turbulent, but mostly stays out of the way, and the smaller and further Drifter camps hardly interact with us. Nothing has changed for us since Hiccup came. Nothing but your self-confidence."

His self-confidence. He was an egoistic, whining little idiot. He had thought he had loved his people, but the only one he could possibly love was himself. Jack Frost's heart was a block of ice so well-polished it had the reflections of a mirror, he thought bitterly.

"Jack, if you must do something, do it to prove to yourself that you are worthy of leading us. You taught us to believe in you, but you need to believe in yourself!"

Jack's blue eyes turned to hers, and he understood what he read over her fine traits. She trusted him. Entirely, not blindly but voluntarily. She believed in him. She could see him clearly, more clearly than he would ever see himself. He had to do something, he realised. He had to step out of his comfort zone, to do something for his people that he had never done before. He had to leave the lazily mischievous comfort of the haven to do something crazy – something to prove what he, Jack Frost, was truly made of.

Drifting in between two clouds, the sun cast its green dappled light through the translucent-turned canopy. The blurred silhouettes of the branches were sketched onto the emerald leaves of all sizes and shapes, in a surreal game of lights and wavering shadows. Jack gazed upwards for a moment. It took him a second to realise why. He wished the shadow of Toothless would project itself onto the canopy, that the brunette inventor would come back. He wished to caress with his eyes the unkempt curls of his auburn hair as they tumbled out of his flying helmet, the freckles that punctuated his solemn face with youthful vitality, the curious flutter of his curved eyelashes, the sudden smiles that parted his svelte lips and cast light around them…

Maybe Tooth was right, once again. Maybe that was what love was. What he felt for Hiccup, for he had to admit the young aviator did not leave him indifferent, had nothing to do with what he had ever been through with Tooth. Love simply wasn't at all, perhaps. Or perhaps love had many faces, all different, all fleeting, all beautifully symmetric, all powerfully unique, like just as many drifting snowflakes.

 _Six years earlier_

For once, Albion the White was true to its name. Every street, every roof, every palace and every hovel was covered in a thick layer of snow. The new winter had been the harshest for a decade. The Man in the Sky was punishing the proud Cornucopian metropolis for its doings, harangued some scrawny gazetteer around the road's corner. The dark trafficking in Elephantine had lasted for too long, the rumours spread, the troops marching over Centralesia would pay for their inhumanities, and so would the nobles at court for their eccentric cravings. Some council, which had dared to point at two little clouds in the sky as the last pieces of undergarment the Man in the Sky, should fear retribution too. The winter was going to be long, and even those who were uncovering the remaining cloudy underclothing could hardly predict that.

Jackson Overland, however, hardly cared about the dealings of the Company of Northern Elephantine. The people below needed their scapegoats, but he lived _overland_ , after all, above all of their heads in a world where roofs were paths, streets were ravines and placid cloud-puffing chimneys were kings. As he ran, he saw the metallic carcass, intricately woven in nuts and bolts, of the ironhorse station under its glass skin. Underneath, a motley sepia crowd gathered around the rails, under the majestic railway clock, wondering when the snow would be cleared off for the ironhorse to arrive. Around the quays lay a market that spread over the limits of the glass building onto the plaza, the streets and the city. Albion the White was a continuum of markets around stations, the limit was blurred as to when one ended and where another started. And on that day, all was reduced to a continuum of white.

Jackson thought of sneaking into the station and into the crowd to jump into the first ironhorse that would take him far away. Far away from the orphanage, from the canes and the whips after food fights, from the cackle of boys in the chill dormitories, from the Colonel who wanted to put him into some family up north. From that patron who wanted to make him into his own Mr. Jack Frost, his own mysterious silver-haired gentleman with the name of a god and the manners of a dandy of Cornucopia.

But _that_ was not Jackson. _He_ was a street rat, a roof king, a child who would live free even if he had to wear sepia rags and steal oranges from markets, to sleep under a blanket of cold wind and wake up to the strident sirens at the docks. He was a loner, inexistent to all those who lived underneath, who would never _believe_ in children living amongst clouds were in any way related to the mysterious disappearance of sugar cubes, bread rolls or woolen gloves. He was as invisible and as free as the wind.

In a few jumps, he was atop the Company of Western Extremesia's roof, crowned in bronze sabretooth tigers and flightless wyverns. Playfully, he jumped onto the helix just above a chimney and spun around with it. With a light chuckle, he ran down the edge of the roof, leaving small footprints on the pristine snow. Such an amusing thing, he thought, to always be the first one to tread upon the rooftop snow.

But his mind was once again distracted. Right below, the water in the docks had frozen overnight! That was going to be fun! Immediately, he jumped off the rooftop. Jackson knew no fear; flying was as simple as breathing. But immensely more exhilarating. His bare feet slid off the surface of the ice's surface. Picking up a crooked stick that must have been floating around before the night, he dragged it around the ice along his elliptical path, liberating a flock of tiny crystals in his wake.

"You. What d'you think you're _doing_ here? This dock belongs to _us_!"

Jackson looked up to see a posse of scrawny boys, barely better-clad than himself, staring down from the dock with aggressive pride. They could see him, these children, he suddenly remembered. He was not invisible.

" _I'll_ teach you a lesson, and you'll _see_!"

The largest boy, whose unkempt red locks were plastered against his freckled temples jumped onto the ice, right in front of him. Jackson could hardly stifle a laugh as he slid and heavily fall onto his derriere. The whole gang's faces were hilarious. Tears came to his eyes, immediately freezing in the cold air.

And then he heard the gasp. The cracks rapidly propagated from where the redhead had fallen.

"Cal!" yelled one of the boys on the dock.

By reflex, Jackson used the crooked end of his stick to hook it onto the other boy's jacket and swing him onto the safety of the soggy jetty. Jackson half-ran, half-glided towards the dock, the ice fracturing with a sickening crunch beneath him. He was dead. For that idiot boy's life, Jackson Overland was so very dead.

Small hands grabbed onto his arms, pulling him onto the hard stone ground. Relief poured through him as soon as his blistered feet felt the stone floor covered in muddy melted snow. The street children stared at him, bewildered.

"You… who _are_ you?" squeaked an indignant Cal.

The silver-haired boy bowed sniggering, taking advantage to swing his stick into Will's legs. The large ginger head once again fell into the cold mud, for the greatest delight of the mirthful onlooking kids. A mischievous smirk stretched on the corner of the pale child's lips.

"Jack Frost. Spirit of Winter and Rider of Winds."

For some stupid reason, they trusted him. They believed in him. They saw him. Jackson Overland had died in the icy water. They saw him as Jack Frost.

"Oh and by the way… snow day!" he bellowed, tossing a fresh snowball into the closest boy's face.

 _By the infirmary at the Guardians' camp_

"Jack?" asked Tooth nervously, interrupting his thoughts.

"Huh? Sorry, I was lost in my memories."

 _Memories_. The most important thing each of the Guardians could possibly own. The one thing that Tooth lived to guard and protect, above all.

"Anything good?"

"I need to befriend the native gangs of our area. I will propose a truce with the Huacans. Natives or not, they're Drifters, just like us. These past years we've been disconnected from the reality of native life and tradition. We've drifted overland rather than live on the land. I have to rebuild this tie with the land, and the first step is acknowledging the Huacans."

"The Huacans… that would save many a pointless loss in small confrontations and mutual scavenging. If a truce works out, that is. But Drago is a powerful man. If he rallies the lesser tribes, we won't be able to face them in guerilla."

"Then we'll need to negotiate. We'll get there with words, not weapons. If I'm the Guardians' Feathered Snake, I'll be theirs as well. They'll believe in me, trust me…"

She saw the gray clouds in the azure of his gleaming eyes.

"But?"

"But I don't want to adopt them, this time. I want _them_ to adopt _me_."

He stared straight into her deep violet eyes, full to the brim with both hope and despair. Her agile fingers traced the line of his veins on his forearm, before settling over his shoulder like a landing Quetzal. Her eyebrows, the right one slashed by a small scar, rose in contemplation.

It was a brave choice, no doubt. The Huacans had been the Drifters' main rivals since they had settled in the quarry. But she also knew that their people were just the same, that the arbitrary tribe repartition had split brothers and sisters, parents and children, lovers and friends. The other Drifters would listen to Jack, just as the Guardians had, because everyone listened to Jack. Ever since the swarming street gangs of Cornucopia had believed in him. The Huacans would not kill their own kin. Their traditions encouraged them to take prisoners alive rather than dead, and Drago's position was precarious enough within his own tribe for him to upset his supporters, no matter how reckless he could be.

But that mattered not, for there needed to be a change, and there needed to be a choice. And Tooth would firmly stand with Jack for him to believe in his choice.

She thought of how he had yet to realise he loved Hiccup, like she had once ignored what she felt for Sandy. Of how he wanted to prove himself to the aviator, by showing himself capable of the very thing he had been mocked about. Of how he hardly cared that the brunette youth would never see it, for Jack _would_ see Hiccup everywhere until he understood his own feelings. Of how the one he would end up proving himself to was none other than himself.

But it mattered not either.

For the snow-haired Feathered Snake was all grown up, the limit between emotion and reason had blurred into the memory of a dream, the Guardians' fate was about to change and with it, the Drifter tribes', the organised raids'… The Companies and the powerful machine of steel and flesh that powered the Colonies were about to jam, sending sparks of constellite and flame in its wake.

"I'll travel to the Huacans tomorrow in the balloon. North can come with me. Tooth, I want you and Sandy to stay and guard the camp, no matter what. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do. I've always believed in you."

 _And I in you_ , his eyes wanted to say, but there was too much rumbling within him for Jack to let it out. Her leader cared for her and Sandy. No matter how flawed, how crooked they and their love could be. She stared at him as he slowly hooked onto a branch to jump into the air and retract into loneliness. Deep inside her, she was conscious that this vision was all that would be left of the instant, while it had evaporated into memory.

She was hardly aware, however, that a certain civilian aviator had accidentally uncovered their location to some steel-making business, and that he had yet to warn them about it.

* * *

 **Fun fact: the Huacans are called so because they live on the Teotihuacan pyramid site. It is much more ancient as they are, they have not built it. Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Snake, resembled a pale, white-haired individual who loved his people as they were and rejected human sacrifice (there are many versions of these legends, so you might have read otherwise). In another tale, he was also known for offering up his own heart to resume the sun's trajectory in the sky. There have been theories (which I personally like, even though I don't know that much haha) likening Quetzalcoatl to Leif Ericsson and the first Viking sailors who reached the Americas in medieval times, so our dearest Jokul Frosti can fill the role… Yeah, Aztec mythology is pretty cool. What do you think about SandyxTooth? I haven't seen it anywhere before, but it looks like her talkative excitement and kind patience would complement his dreamy calm and strong willpower quite well. Should there be more of this later? What should be their ship name? Tell me in the reviews!**

 **Announcement: I just posted a one-shot related to an ongoing original writing project of mine, if you like fairytales and vampires go check it out and leave a review! Please R &R, F&F, please please leave a comment, that's really helpful. Thanks for your awesomeness.**


	10. I See the Light

**So, this chapter took me forever to write, despite the fact it's not that long. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks for everything.**

 **Chapter 10, where the recommended soundtrack is of course the (amazing) titular song.**

 **Disclaimer: #insert**

 **CW: mild violence**

* * *

And at last she saw the light of the New World's sky. Their wooden barge sailed through the night, the sails wrapped against the mast in the calm of the windless air, causing the smallest of perturbations onto the perfect reflection of the firmament. Very quietly the motor rumbled deep under the water's surface, ever so slightly disturbing the silence. Rapunzel clung to the figurehead, a messy blonde braid softly beating her calves. She was draped in a simple puff-sleeved cotton dress, in the fashion of the Colonies of Eastern Extremesia, Pascal dimly glowing over her shoulder. The heiress and her betrothed had flown across the ocean in merely two sunrises and two sunsets aboard Corona & Sons' fastest airship. For greater discretion, they had landed on the Spaniard island of Pedazo and hired a barge to reach the mainland. A crew of Flynn's business acquaintances was due to greet them by steamcar in the small port of New Salamanca, far from the eyes of Corona & Sons.

"What time is it?" she mouthed softly, fumbling with the buttons of her watch-mirror-compass-frying pan.

"Midnight. Look before you."

Flynn's hands delicately turned her shoulders towards the shore. And the she saw them. Little by little, from the land, golden lanterns were released, rising in the nocturnal air. They drifted upwards, diffusing gently, wavering delicately, colliding soundlessly. Each was cylindrical, as high as one's forearm, wrapped in a thin layer of paper, each identical, and yet unique, glowering in a different hue of gold, rose, or pastel lilac. From tight flocks they spread into trails of constellations, filling both sky and sea with their light. Bewildered, Eugene and Rapunzel stood admiring as their boat floated amidst the paper stars.

"What are they? Why tonight at midnight?"

"That's a part of the First Weselton Exposition, hosted by the Duke of Weselton and sponsored by the Company of the Southern Isles. The idea is to show off the novel long-lasting constellite, with some new doping method which yields a characteristic yellow colour. Some of the Andersen underlings must be boasting about finding it before the Coronas."

"Everything's so… different."

"Yes."

Oh, how warm and real and bright. Could it all be real? Could she believe her eyes? All those years, she had lived watching the stars from the windows of counterfeit decrepit ivory towers, within the frontiers of an eternal gray fog that had suddenly lifted, revealing the skies anew to her curious eyes. Could this be the world? Could this be _her_ world? As each lantern slowly danced into her field of vision, like an indolent flicker of hope, her mind reached out to see it, touch it, _become_ it. And though she was small, she was the silence and the obscurity, the waters mirroring the sky, the cosmos reflecting the ocean, infinitely, and the millions of lights made from the stuff of stars, just like she was. And she stood, shining in the starlight, feeling the Earth turning beneath her.

Nothing was the way it had been. She felt tiny before the immensity. She felt immense before the darkness. As she saw the light, she forgot she was the heiress of one of the most prosperous empires of the Colonies. She forgot she was running away from her family's manor. She could not care less whether he was a hustler working for her father, whether he saw her as herself or as the wealthy only daughter of Jerome Corona. She could not care even about Miss Ella, about Mother Gothel or about the Crownsworth estate. There was just Punz and Flynn under the constellite light, and she loved him, and everything else failed to matter. She _was_ fate, and _there_ was where she believed she was meant to be.

A lantern gently drifted towards her, just above the still waterline, its constellite core visible through the thin paper envelope. She peered inside to see the golden stuff of stars powerfully radiate atop a slender, minuscule helix, coloured in black on one side and white on the other. The yellow light particles, reflected off the white surfaces and absorbed into the black, set it spinning to propel the lantern upwards. Rapunzel gave it a mild push towards the skies. As always, the constellite did her bidding like a tame bird. The warm light illuminated her emerald eyes and the fair strands of her abundant hair.

Flynn could not help smiling at the beautiful tableau. Punz was everything, and the photons emanated from every part of her, shedding light on his unknowing emotions. He might have been part of the plan, part of the universe. He might have been an adventurer after gold and adrenaline. He might have been an opportunist courting one of the most eligible bachelorettes of Cornucopia. He might have had everything prepared at the port unbeknownst to her to achieve his gold-digging plans. He might have been just a piece like another in and engine he could not control. But a cog in a well-oiled machine that spent a lifetime spinning eventually became oblivious of what the whole mechanism had been designed for, if at all. It then started to live and aspire for the beauty of its perfect circular rotation and its subtly intricate imbrication. And there he was, where he was meant to go, attached to a golden axle that was her, set in motion by the sole starlight that shone through her.

"I have something for you," she cut through his thoughts. "I should have given it to you before, but I was scared. And the thing is, I'm not scared anymore. You know what I mean?"

She opened her pocket watch the reveal the object she conserved inside. With a timid smile, she handed back the blue-diamond-studded ring. His hesitant eyes lingered on the small object on her open palm. He noticed something amusing. Then, with a playful smolder, his expert hand flew over hers, causing a warm tingle as his fingers barely met hers.

"What's this?" he asked with genuine curiosity, holding the small seed he had found encased between the diamonds of the ring.

Her green eyes widened as she slightly blushed.

"It's a present from my parents, the last time they had flown together across the ocean. Father had promised a gift to both his daughters, natural and adoptive. We were covered in lace, jewelry and fine silks, we'd run out for things to ask for. Miss Ashcroft wished for the first twig that brushed his shoulder. I begged for the first flower that blossomed on his path. At their return, the twig came back intact, and a new tropical tree was soon planted in the Crownsworth greenhouse. However, the flower withered away, as did Mother's health upon her return to Camford. In honour of her passing, Father never planted the seed from the flower, so I kept it inside the watch to always be close to her. Sorry, it wasn't supposed to end up stuck in here."

"It's quite all right," he fondly smiled at her clumsiness.

Gently he returned the seed that she preciously positioned back into her compass. She had passed the point of hesitation and fear, the point where her world had shifted, and for once she knew what she wanted. She had changed, like a flower that grew and blossomed, so she knew that she could change him. She knew that she could love him like she loved her parents' seed, for the eternity of a stable core and for the promise of a blooming flower. Just above them, two lanterns languidly orbited each other, soaring in a graceful waltz, until they were just specks in a blurred starry sky.

Surprised, he did not protest as her hand took his. She struggled for an instant to slide the ring onto his finger, until he skillfully seized it from her fumbling fingers to tenderly put it on himself. Neither of them interrupted the soft music of silence, contemplating each other with eyes full of wondrous starlight. Now that she saw him, now that he saw her, as what they were, what they had been, what they would be and what they would never be, they were parallel lanterns in the calm breeze dancing around and briefly colliding with each other, revealing what each other's core was made out of through a thin and supple barrier of paper.

Their eyes refused to leave each other, and their hands refused to part. Rapunzel tucked a strand of dark brown hair back behind Flynn's ear. Her slim fingers slid onto the shapely side of his jaw. Quietly, she drew his face towards hers.

Should he? Rapunzel was a flower, after all, pure and youthful, innocent and unique, delicate and mysterious, and he dared not touch her, alter her, change the way she was, radiant in the constellite light, just the way he loved her.

Could she? She wanted them to become one, right there, right then, to eventually break apart with profound collateral damage, jubilating in pain, deflowered and debased, to burn bright like one of those golden lilies and grow back from their ashes and cinders.

As they approached the shore, lulled by the nocturnal tide, the ebb and flow of questions washed through their minds.

Rapunzel's fingers slipped against his jaw as the ship reeled. A lantern collided with the figurehead. Oh, dreadful fate. Another hit the stern. Oh, how crazy fate was at them, how suddenly things had gotten out of hand again. The paper cylinders alone would not have been heavy enough for such substantial impact. A flicker of panic lit in Flynn's eyes as he saw the silhouette of a hook through each translucent envelope.

"Flynn, what's – Ahh!"

With a sickening sound, the barge detached from the water surface and was lifted into the air, suspended by thick steel cables to what appeared as a small black zeppelin overhead.

"What's going on?" yelped Rapunzel.

Flynn looked up to see the crossed daggers sigil on the aircraft's tail. That definitely did not look good. To answer her question, a ladder was dropped directly from the dirigible's belly onto the boat's narrow deck. In a heavy thump that swayed the wooden barge, an imposing dark figure landed before them.

"Who's that?" whispered the blonde young woman, a shiver of fear in her voice.

"He doesn't like me."

From the ladder dropped more men in black combat gear, panels of coalstring and leather tied together with an assortment of copper-tinted buckles, diverse blades and guns emerging from the side of their nail-studded boots, their heavy leather belts, their narrow sleeves and their thick shoulder pads.

"Who's _that_?"

"They don't like me either."

The last man to fall in front of them was in every aspect identical to the very first one. Flynn looked at them the one after the other, the other after the one, visibly confused that they could have been distinct people.

" _Who's that_?"

"Let's just assume for the moment that everyone in here doesn't like me!"

The twins walked on either side of the eloped couple, staring down at them menacingly. Even though their scars and rough build betrayed their mercenary past, their matched velvet doublets indicated a higher social status. Their forearms were covered in complex mechanical gauntlets, the little levers, cogs and springs lethally imbricated to deploy blades of a dreadful variety of shapes. Similar equipment was attached to the back of their boots.

"Ernest Stabbington," growled one of them as an introduction.

"No, I'm Ernest –"

"But that's what I –"

"No, you said –"

"I said that y- "

"Ahem," Flynn charmingly intervened.

"We are the Stabbington brothers, at the service of …"

"… His Excellence the Duke of Weselton, trusted friend to Mr. Frederik Andersen of the Southern Isles Company," Eugene finished. "I just didn't know there could possibly be _two_ of you. _One_ is far enough, oh dear."

"Rider, no-one told you to speak," grumbled Ernest-not-Ernest. "And you know what we're after. Where are the crowns? "

"Mmmh-mmmh mmh mmh-mmh-mmh, mmmh-mmh? Mmh –"

"Give him the right to speak, sir." interrupted Rapunzel defiantly.

"Oh, look at who we have here."

Not-Ernest-Ernest seized the frail woman by the arm and stroked a strand of her golden hair with a bladed finger.

"Blonde kilometric hair, still too young to fly away from the nest alone, supposedly distinguished manners. Our indicators were right, this is Miss Rapunzel Corona. Her father would pay a fortune to have her back. And maybe return the collection of crowns and jewellery we got from the savages in _collaboration_ before you _escaped_ with them on your own and flew to the Old Continent, _Rider_."

"Rapunzel has nothing to do with this! The gold belonged to us by right, the land where the natives buried it was granted to Corona & Sons by the Queen of Cornucopia, and you know that very well. The only reason we cooperated on this business is because Drifters that were a nuisance to _you_ sat right where our gold was. We got you rid of them; do you really expect crowns and jewels on top of _that_? Now let her go!"

As they rose into the air, Flynn grabbed the closest lantern and thrust it at Mr. Stabbington's face. Surprised, he stepped back and loosened his grip on Rapunzel. The heiress managed to free herself, only to stumble against the side of the barge and nearly fall over. The other Stabbington brother caught her firmly.

"Let her go _where_? You're in the middle of the _sky_ on a ship that can't _fly_! You're all ours now."

One of the brothers gestured at his henchmen.

"Radiomessage to Mr. Jerome Corona, tell him we have Rider and his daughter. Ask him to send us all the gold by the next sunset. You, install the periscopes into their barge cabin. Set amplifier parabolas too. Be ready to have luxographs and records for her father. I want to know _everything_ they're up to, by day _and_ night."

The designated man pulled on a grimace.

"Now!"

He ran away like a mouse scurried, amidst the paper starlight.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Corona & Sons zeppelin of Plant Alpha, Mr. Corona sat at the large ovale table. His elbows heavily rested on the oaken wood. One hand clung to the delicate Western Extremesia porcelain handle of his empty tea cup. The other warily massaged his brown eyebrows and the pockets beneath his eyes. He shifted to replay the radiomessage, but could not find the motivation to. Waving at an attendant, he spoke in a numb tone:

"Fill a teapot with the Northwestern Elephantine brew please. Make sure that everything is poured from the right heights in the right order. Oh and, add a drop of the Spirit of Rosalba, please."

"Mr. Corona –" interjected Mr. Dingwall, but he rose a silencing hand.

"Immediately, sir." The servant left the room silently.

At this nocturnal time, the meeting room was nearly empty, save for himself and his trade partner and advisor Mr. Dingwall, a friend of Mrs. DunBroch's. The room was large enough to contain two dozens of people. The ceiling was curved like the inside of a whale's carcass, illuminated dimly by the golden constellite light from the clockwork globe at the centre of the table, the exact replica of the Camford one. Against the wall and on the ceiling were stuffed animal specimens of all colours and shapes, gathered across all known continents. Between bright feathers, patterned furs and iridescent scales shone their lifeless glass eyes, looking down at them dully.

"Sir, you do not have to pay that sum," carefully pronounced Mr. Dingwall. "These Stabbingtons are nothing we cannot handle."

"It is my _daughter_ who has been taken hostage along with Mr. Fitzherbert."

"There is still the possibility to send an elite unit to free them, sir. We should be able to establish their position from the last message they sent, and they will send more."

"The fastest zeppelin we have was given to Flynn Rider for him to leave for Cornucopia with the crowns and jewels taken from the Drifters south of Plant Theta. He must have left it on some lone island somewhere. Without an aircraft that much faster than theirs, I can't see how we can take the Stabbingtons' warship by surprise."

"Oh, but we _have_ one," answered Mr. Dingwall, to his slight surprise. "We are in the negotiation of a contract with Berk Steel, who happens to be the very owner of that little troublemaker that outflew our flotilla over the mines. My indicators send me a luxograph from the Exposition, it is clear that both the ship and the pilot belong to the Berk clan. That could simply be a small term of the contract to ask for the aviator's service and the ship for a day."

Jerome Corona rubbed his beard. It was a well-thought idea. Despite their past experience as mercenaries, the Stabbingtons had probably never faced anything like that particular glider. The extremely small and fast ship would be ideal to simply carry two people away with the minimal amount of blood and confrontation. However, he hardly liked the way Mrs. DunBroch and her men wanted to position themselves as the central hinge of this affair. Elinor was a clever negotiator who could play with the heart of humans to avoid conflict, but she was also ambitious and inexperienced. And that simply made too many intermediates to his liking.

He looked with a critical eye as the tea was poured into a new ivory cup, to his usual taste, carved with detail so fine it appeared translucent in the dim light. Jerome Corona was a man who had risen to wealth and power through a vision and a carefully controlled plan. From his subordinates and technicians to the chromosomes of his windowsill flowers, each part of his engine was chosen and designed to meet his objectives. Many of his supporters as well as rivals sold and bought machines and automatons in this age of steel and steam, keeping them like pet jaguars with the unspoken dread they might grow while eating from their hands, escape from their grasp and gnaw off their hearts during their sleep. Jerome had no such concerns. There was no balance of Nature that should not be played with in fear of retribution, for a man like him. There was simply an engine, an extremely complex and powerful one, _his_ engine. He was playing a game that was at forceful but delicate, and he felt it slipping away from his hands.

He had had it all, until what he kept at once furthest from his hand and closest to his heart was taken from him. His only daughter, Rapunzel Corona. He had lost his wife to an Extremesian sickness, and his daughter meant so much _more_ to him. She was truly the legacy of his body and his mind, and he could not afford to lose her. Suddenly, he thought about Mother Gothel. He missed her touch, her voice, that pinch of salt that made her inky hair even more beautiful. Her calculating ambition had served him with unknowing faith. He could not get himself to blame her, not after everything they had achieved together, and not before what they were about to achieve.

She must have understood the mugger and gentleman was playing against her by wooing Rapunzel. Reaching out to Corona & Sons' competitors to get rid of him as well as get her back, thus renewing her father's approval, was typical of her. That plan was undeniably her doing, and there was no way she would possibly hurt Rapunzel. She must have been the one to inform the Stabbingtons that Eugene and Rapunzel were fleeing together. Which meant that she had already planned the heiress's rescue. Letting that schedule unfold without a hitch was the most efficient way to get out of this affair without shedding gold or blood. Jerome Corona had a slight smile, as the alcoholic tea warmly poured between his lips. Eugene had been a good underling, a rare pet, but his sacrifice was necessary for the engine to continue its route.

"I say we wait before acting," he simply said. "Strike when the time is exactly right, and that is neither now, nor tomorrow."

* * *

Rapunzel and Flynn were simply tossed into the barge's cabin, each with an ankle tied with coalstring to the door's hinges. A simple dim candlelight lit up the cramped space. Through the ceiling, a periscope and an amplifying system allowed the Stabbington brothers to spy every of their moves and words. There was no way they could even _speak_ about escaping Heavily, Eugene slumped onto the lower of the bunk beds. What had he _done_ to her? _She_ did in no way deserve this.

"Do you remember when we hid under the bed when we were children, and pretended that was our impregnable fort?" she said cheerily.

Why was she so naïve, so innocent, so positive? Oh, Rapunzel, sweet Rapunzel… But before he had time to protest, she forcefully dragged him under the bed, in the partial shadows of the tumbling sheets. The darkness was near total. He could feel himself gently dozing off. At least, they would sleep away from the Stabbingtons' stare, down there.

The heiress simply opened her closed fist. A tiny light lit up the darkness and the hopeful gleam of her long golden braid. She must have taken it out of the lantern he had thrown at the mercenary holding her. None of the men would have suspected she happened to be so unexpectedly skillful with handling constellite. Then, with a playful smirk, she fumbled into her messy plait to drag out a small pin. And slowly, silently, she started to carve onto the bed's wooden planks just above their faces. Letters. Words. A plan. She had some idea of one, or at least they could _make_ one. In the golden obscurity, far away all eyes and ears, they could start to scheme. Under their new starlit sky, which was low, hard and wooden, they could expand their own universe.

Long minutes later, as she finally fell asleep, the constellite light still shining in her open palm and making her hair shine in an almost surreal blonde light. Now that he saw her, he was suddenly reminded of a lullaby from their childhood, and very quietly he started to hum. The words came back to mind:

 _Flower, gleam and glow_

 _Let your power shine…_

* * *

 **Fun fact: Flynn's zeppelin is about 1.5 times faster than the Hindenburg, which would have taken roughly 3 days to make the journey from e.g. London to Havana. (Yes, the AU planet is as large as Earth – gravity reasons). Rosalba is the Country of the Rising Sun, so the Spirit of Rosalba is the equivalent of sake.**

 **Announcement: you may have noticed I changed the title and synopsis. Thanks to Blooming Snowflake for the suggestion. Please R &R, F&F, constructively comment :)**


	11. Silence, Secrets and Rainforest Requiem

**Thanks everyone for everything. Here's a short, rather graphic chapter. Let me know what you think in the comments.**

theawsomest5: Thank you! Yes, Jack is great. I wonder where he is :P Well, there's some answer to it in this chapter. He's just literally had his PoV and flashback in the chapter before last, so I need to catch up on the others too! I've got the next five-ish chapters completely plotted out in my head, and Jack is narrating a big chapter ahead, as in a _big_ one. I'll say no more!

 **Chapter 11, where content warnings are escalating quickly, even though the plot has kind of been building up to this.**

 **Disclaimer:*insert***

 **CW: mentions of violence, blood, death, racism, genocide attempt**

* * *

"Nay! Not that way!" fulminated Merida as Astrid collected her arrows that had barely met the target.

The DunBroch heiress had landed on the Berk Entreprise Rumblehorn a couple of hours earlier with Stoick's delegation, and after some quick unpacking, the two young women had started training on the gigantic steamboat's deck. As the afternoon slowly drifted into sunset, Astrid had shown the redhead some axe-wielding routines, before insisting that she should advise her on archery.

The blonde warrior inserted her arrows into her belt quiver, against a brown leather corset tightly adjusted over her dark scarlet dress, barely floor-length at the back and mid-thigh length at the front, revealing mismatched stockings, one red and one black, and combat boots, covered in an intricate steel machinery of cogs and pistons designed to activate a combination of springs, blades and projectiles. Tied with a complex entanglement of straps on her arms and back were similar latest-technology devices, all in small sophisticated metallic parts, designed to cut, slash, shoot or store more weapons, covering the pale, bare arm skin and the round lace-frilled neck of the fashionable Centralesian gown.

Next to such a display of cutting-edge – figuratively and literally – armament, Merida's training outfit looked almost simple. She wore a gown of a light but solid fabric in her favourite shade of dark blue. A narrow, plunging neckline revealed a sharp and thin section of her freckled ivory skin through the whale-boned corset. Below a thin belt from which a variety of blades hung, the crinoline extended like the corolla of a night blue flower, falling to the height of her stripy-stocking-covered knees. Each of her embroidered ankle boots concealed a small constellite gun. Her glaive was in its sheath strapped behind her back, that mouse nest of an orange shock of hair tumbling onto it. Her custom gyroscope bow, of course, was in her hand, along with some arrows that dimly shone in indigo in the bright sunlight.

" _Nay_ ," she repeated impatiently. "You can't just look at the target through the sight and shoot. You have to remember you're on a _boat_. While the deck and the target are rocking beneath you, the arrow is hardly aware of any of _that_ happening. You have to be aware of the tide's rhythm, choose the time where the ship moves slowest to shoot. And the winds, if you shoot outside you have to take it into account. Open your ears and listen. Which way is the wind blowing, how strong, how fast does the direction change? Hear the wind, hear the tide, the ship, the silence and the forces of Nature, the…"

"Radiomessage?"

The archer cocked a ginger brow, surprised.

"That's from the changing rooms. That must be Hiccup radiomessaging me. I need to go."

"I'm coming with you."

The warriors dashed down a flight of spiral steel steps into the vessel's colossal armoury. Between broadswords, bastards, sabres, rapiers, glaives and daggers cleanly disposed into ellipsoidal patterns over the walls, guns and rifles cleanly aligned carefully arranged by size and oak and glass cupboard full of the newest inventions as well as numerous prototypes of imbricated-part constellite-powered lever-mediated spring-loaded _deadly things_ that could be used to dispatch knives, bullets or other boomerangs from all possible parts of one's combat gear, some of which Merida hardly wanted to think about. Astrid had to ask her to hurry up as the heiress excitedly stopped to stare at the beautifully intricate arms.

After they crossed the immense wooden-floored room, a low-ceiling gray corridor opened before them, toughened glass doors on either side opening onto small training rooms. The Shield Maiden hastily waved at Snotlout Jorgenson, Hiccup's broad-chested cousin, who gestured back between two paint-cartridge rifle shots with cheerful smugness. By contrast, the twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston, hardly responded to her mid-grappling training session in the next-door room. Fishlegs Ingerman distractedly grinned back while replacing some gear on his constantly upgraded gauntlets.

Eventually, Merida and Astrid reached their own changing room. As soon as the door was opened, a puff of warm steam escaped from the women's common showers. Along the cramped cabin's walls were a number of unkempt dresses, randomly thrown onto rows of circular shields, piles of battleaxes and alignments of full quivers. Their footsteps echoed on the humid tiled floor.

"Is Hiccup your fiancé?" asked Merida, somewhat abruptly.

"Of course not, we're adoptive siblings. Father intends to give my hand to the Rumblehorn's captain and leader of our fleet, Eret son of Eret."

"Oh, I see, sorry."

The slightest hint of disappointment and resignation tainted the archer's voice.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd have thought you _liked_ Hiccup."

"Huh? How do you even know me?"

"You stay here," commanded Astrid as she composed unlocking combination of her metallic locker, setting into action a series of small pivoting pieces before the door swiveled open.

Fumbling into the draped skirts, rifle munitions, metallic crinolines and spare silver buckles, she managed to find the sizzling radiomessenger that repeatedly played Hiccup's message. Even though the background noise made it loud enough for it to be heard from a distance, Merida could hardly make out the words from across the room. She let herself fall onto the nearest bench.

When Astrid finally turned off the communication device and looked towards her, her traits were livid.

"We're flying to Falconlake by balloon, as soon as possible. No time to get to the quarry anymore. Take your weapons and munitions with you, nothing else. We'll be expecting four other people on board… at most. I'll get some constellite for them, Hiccup didn't plan enough of it to fly such a large detour and with so many passengers."

"But.. And the plan you were –"

Before she even had her answer, she saw in the Shield Maiden's pale blue eyes that somehow it was too late.

 _An hour earlier, above the Southeastern Extremesian rainforest, minutes away from the Guardian camp_

Hiccup nervously fidgeted with his pencil, mourning the loss of his favourite mug. Well, considering that his glider had recently _exploded_ , only losing a porcelain cup had been incredibly fortunate. Even though drinking his hot coffee out of a crystal wine glass was strikingly inconvenient. He flew high over the jungle's canopy, borne by the winds along the most direct route to the Guardians' camp. According to his estimates, he would reach his destination in a few dozen minutes. Seeing that Stoick and Gobber had already located the quarry using his own flight data, he was hardly giving away anything by taking the fastest route.

The pilot was in the process of convincing himself that he had to help the Guardians. Stoick was busy rallying the forces of DunBroch over Plant Alpha, and they had a day at least until he seal a contract with the mercenaries and fly his heavy forces towards his target. Once they reached it, the Guardians stood no chance. They excelled at guerilla, sabotage and raids, but facing trained military troops in open combat, amongst their crones and their toddlers, would result in an inevitable carnage. No human beings possibly _deserved_ that, thought Hiccup. He would convince the Drifters to move out and hide until the storm faded away. This was nothing to do with Jack. This was his duty towards a people, as a sign of his Miseralian honour.

His absence at the Berk Steel presentation at the Exposition would have caused even more disruption amongst the attendees. Thus, the inventor had needed to wait one day before flying south towards the quarry. He had agreed with Astrid that she would join him as quickly as possible to help defend the camp, once she convinced Merida DunBroch to join. Even though the redhead archer's stubborn insubordination slightly worried him, he had to recognise that she and Astrid would make a formidable warrior pair. Besides, they would never have managed to rally her to their cause without her rebellious attitude towards her own clan.

From above, the rainforest was more than an emerald sea. Flowers and fruits on the highest branches yearned for photons, revealing their pale colours to the skies. Each petal, each pistil, each seed and each stem defied gravity to display its unique shape and shade of pastel in the impressionistic sunlight. Parrots sporadically fluttered from dominant tree to dominant tree, earning the waves of primates hanging off their branches and creepers. These rare episodes barely disturbed the silent blooming of the secret garden. To the aviator, the canopy was the largest secret hanging garden that he had the privilege to tread in. A garden whose circular frontier was the horizon, to which even he could never uncover all the hidden mysteries. Such that without prior knowledge of the quarry's location, which Astrid had actually obtained from Gobber and radiomessaged to him, he would have seen nothing there but another patch of light paint strokes on an emerald backdrop.

Spinning a brass pulley that was connected to a series of wheels and chains, he shifted the orientation of both of Toothless's wings, ready for the landing. The vessel dove towards the trees, leaving a trail of steam on its wake. A subconscious smile appeared on Hiccup's lips as he avoided the first large branch on his way. He ducked under entangled vines, glided around a large trunk, feeling the leaves rustling against his plane's carcass and the branches elastically parting on his way. For a second, he was weightless. For a second, he just existed in the world around him. For a second, he hardly thought about Jack. And then the plane slowed to a stop.

Hiccup flicked a steel pedal with his prosthetic leg, immediately deploying the helium balloons above his ship. The fixed and upgraded system had worked without a hitch. Expecting the idea the Guardians now had of him, he had thought it more prudent not to land in the camp and let them approach Toothless. A complex system of imbricated gears of all sizes and shapes than ran along the inside of the plane's side activated the spring-loaded harpoon other the wing, securely anchoring the floating engine to a nearby branch. Spreading his coalstring wings, Hiccup opened the door and jumped into the air.

As he ably landed onto the dark red floor, it took him some time to realise that something was _off_. Gradually, the first thing he was aware of was the silence. No chattering voices, no children's laughter, no footsteps, no clanking metal or creaking pulleys. And then he noticed the smell. It was subtle enough, almost covered by the forest's humid and earthy scent, but it made his stomach ever so slightly churn. Cautiously taking a few steps around, he hesitated to call out for a name. Who could he possibly call for? North, who had hardly bothered to welcome him? Sandy, who had not spoken a word in his presence? Jack, whom he had outright insulted before they parted? But his thoughts were interrupted as he realised what was leaning against the wall around the corner of the nearest shed.

The old man stared at him with his usual impressive eyes, wide with determination. His beard fell onto his broad chest, streaks of silver and onyx splayed out onto the red patches of leather. His callous hands clung to his identical sabres. The inventor would have expected North to spring at him, were it not for the half dozen wooden arrows and darts buried in his rotund stomach. The large gashes on his shoulders, chest and legs were hardly visible against the crimson fabric of his garb. A single scarlet stream poured against his temple into the furrows of his wrinkled dark red skin.

Hiccup wanted to look away from the cadaver. He could not. He wanted to feel repulsed, and he did. But fascination had him nailed there. How the watercoulour eyes had lost nothing of their expressiveness. How someone dead could look so alive. How the difference was so subtle yet so obvious. How North, mentor to Jack and father to the Guardians, was dead. How Hiccup should have been overwhelmed.

Instead, suddenly, he felt nothing.

His utterly dry green eyes warily detached from the corpse, onto the remainder of the carnage ahead. He had half-expected a pile of bodies higher than his head, bloodstained faces distorted in anonymous horror, oozing with a river of red liquid pooling down under his feet. However, all he saw was human shapes here and there, in the mismatched beauty of their Drifter outfits, some with something slightly _stranger_ than others. Fallen feathers. Torn-off buttons. Bloodstained wings. Unnaturally angled limbs. Shattered staffs. Fragments of metal and wood poking through skulls, throats, shoulders, legs. All their lives had abruptly been blown away like the wind clears the fog, lively expressions still pulling their traits, eyes still wide open. Absorbed onto the sandy floor, the blood puddles were not even that obvious. The heavy canopy overhead was the lid of a coffin of oblivion, concealing the secret carnage as one of its many mysteries. This had nothing to do with the heroic gore of epic battlefields the people of Miseralia sang about at dusk. Everything was so unglorious, so unpoetic, so _real_. The pilot hardly registered that most of the bodies were white of skin. And flies, flies swarming everywhere, more flies than Hiccup had ever seen in his life.

He was empty, numb, detached. He awaited to a wave of terror, disgust, sadness, but none of these came. At the surface of his brain, his survival instinct had him load the small steel crossbow on the right forearm of his flying gear. Whoever had slaughtered the Guardians may still lurk around searching for survivors. Quietly, he advanced amidst the debacle, preparing to shoot.

A waft of steam blew into his face as he walked by the constellite-powered stove. As a reflex he let go of his bolt. Suddenly, he heard a spinning projectile whistle past his ear. Another rebounded against his aviator's helmet. Under the impact, Hiccup fell to his knees. He realised the weapon was a small, slender golden blade, similar to a scalpel, covered in a thin liquid layer. Cautiously, he brought it towards his nose. The vaguely flowery smell was characteristic of morphium. Hiccup immediately identified the anaesthetic's scent from the infirmary rooms on board of the Berk Entreprise steamship. His attacker had not meant to kill.

"I mean no harm. I came as a friend," he said evenly, letting go of the blade and of his crossbow. A friend of whom? North? At least the dead man could hardly deny it, he thought bitterly.

A metallic flutter answered him, followed by a flying silhouette that landed straight before him. Her white linen dress was torn and covered in bloodstains, her dark hair, dyed into rainbow-like shades, messily gathered into a nurse's bun. Two identical scalpels to the one that hit him fiercely gleamed in her hands. Strapped against her back were the clockwork wings he had fixed. As soon as she saw him, a certain expression of relief fell over her traits.

"I'm Hiccup – " he started, realising he had not revealed his last name to Jack.

"I know. My name's Tooth. This is Sandy."

Hiccup's heart ever so slightly settled down at the sight of the familiar short man, spiky yellow hair cluttered with sand and blood.

"I brought none of this upon you," Hiccup said quickly, "I came to warn you about an attack that was supposed to –"

Sandy interrupted with a simple nod, wary eyes full of understanding. Tooth sheathed her blades onto her leather belt and came to kneel facing the young inventor.

"After you left, Jack thought it best to get rid of his status as a white saviour by negotiated an equal-to-equal reconciliation with a native clan and long-term rival, the Huacan Drifters. I did back him up, it sounded like such a bright notion from his part. Yesterday, their leader received him for the accords, but after years of minimal contact and divergent cultures, the proposal was accepted, but in a peculiar way. People do not change from a day to the other, you see. And the Huacans, even though we hardly thought about it, are adepts of ritual human sacrifice. Drago, their chief, believed that Jack was willing to sacrifice his own blood and that of the non-native ones of our tribe to appease the Suns for his crimes and persuade them to chase away the white invader from Eastern Extremesia. Of course, when he understood this, Jack refused, so Drago caght him as a prisoner and attacked, taking us by surprise and leaderless. They took all our constellite and some of our engine and automaton parts. All the natives were captured and forced into becoming Huacans. The others… North was killed in combat, bravely taking many enemy lives. So were many others. Claude, Pippa, Monty… but these are names you probably never heard of. Jack alone was spared, to be sacrificed at close of day atop the Pyramid of the Moon at the Huacans' ceremonial capital, half an hour north from here by hot air balloon."

A crystal transparent tear rolled down her magenta eye, and Sandy reached out to wipe it with surprising gentleness.

"Jack… he was… he _is_ our closest friend as well as our loving leader. He told us to stay alive and keep the camp, whatever occurred to him or the others. And I accepted, I even encouraged him to… Oh, Jack…"

A sob shattered her delicate voice.

"Tooth, it's not your fault."

How could he be so cold, so unaffected? Hiccup's heart was shielded under frosted armour. He wanted to feel, he wanted to weep, to be human. But his emotions were deep below, under the numb skin and the blank cortex. He knew they existed, silently incandescent like a dormant volcano, but his consciousness deliberately glided over the surface in fusion. He was desperately calm and collected, unable to express or comprehend what he went through. Where he should have collapsed in tears, he was standing there in the rising twilight, ruthlessly planning and scheming when it mattered. There was not much left of him but an intricately designed, perfectly oiled robot in shining steel armour, precisely calibrated to accomplish the task the last Hiccup's scrap of feelings had vaguely set onto.

He had read that native Drifters would never kill off their enemies in open warfare, but rather take them as prisoners for sacrificial purposes. Clearly, Drago had made an exception for his white enemies, these less-than-humans. The asserted pillars of his education had collapsed, and little was left of what he thought he knew. This was the ideal time to start rebuilding things anew. Progressively, his analytical mind drafted a mental list of the remnants of his certainties.

One. He had come to rescue the Guardians, and many of them had been killed, the remainder captured.

Two. Jack was alive, and the Huacans had no plans of sacrificing the native Guardians, such that the silver-haired chief was the only one who needed urgent saving.

Three. Hiccup had not come to save Jack, he felt nothing for Jack any more, if ever.

Four. He had to at least help Sandy and Tooth free him, after everything he had caused to their tribe.

Five. He was just trying to lie to himself and failing miserably. Of course there was something between him and Jack Frost.

Slowly, dully, he started to fidget with the scalpel at his feet in a helicopter-like way. He only realised when he dropped it and tried to pick it up. Were it not for his aviator gloves, he would have cut and anaesthetised himself.

"Sandy, do you still have much morphium left?" he asked, looking at the blade.

"Don't do something stupid," warned Tooth's protective voice, concerned he might want to drug himself into oblivion.

"I've already done that. I was just wondering, because I've planned something, you know, crazy."

* * *

 **Fun fact: As shown by the position of his crossbow, Hiccup is left-handed, just as his book counterpart is (he is consistently depicted as right-handed in the films, I seem to think). It is a minor plot point. While book references are minimal due to the huge difference between the films and the books, there may be some, here and there. Also, phew, some of that chapter was tough. North is dead. I'm sorry, it's what war is like. I tried to give a more realistic approach to the carnage rather than an epic amplification or a glorious gorification, or even a pink fluffication. It's somewhat unusual, especially in fanfic, please give your opinion in the reviews! Finally, Hiccup's reaction has become fairly typical of him. In canon, he's been able to cast aside his emotions to focus on the action at multiple times, only to collapse afterwards (when first facing Toothless, when first seeing the Red Death, when his father died, …). It's become a quite large character trait in this story. Actually, the eponymous Aviator and inventor (H. Hughes) in his pretty amazing film has been depicted with a similar genius-when-it-matters/heroic BSOD personality – he is one of my inspirations for Hiccup in this story. Also, phew, that was a long author's note.**

 **Announcement: I have something quite big that I'm organising upcoming on Wednesday, so I'm not sure how regularly I'll be able to update. After that, I'm getting cracking on the next 4-5 chapters I've had plotted out for a while. Until then, R &R, F&F, leave constructive comments, have an automaton hug xxx**


	12. A Broken Egg

**Whoa, exactly 1,111 views for 11 chapters, thanks for everything. This chapter was a bit crazy to write, hope you have fun reading. It feels slightly funny to write a dark bloody chapter and then go back to the cute and funny stuff.**

faisyah865: Aw thanks a lot! Hope you're enjoying the UK, the weather's frankly not too bad right now compared to usual. And as is obvious, deaths are non-canon, so you'll need to read in order to know who lives! I don't particularly enjoy killing off people for fun though, so most of your favourites should be okay… should they? I'm glad you liked the Merida fangirly thingy.

 **Chapter 12, where one egg is cooked and one is about to be eaten, even though not the same one as the one that has been cooked.**

 **CW: violence, mention of death, [costume porn, McGuffin]**

* * *

"Madam, they lost the connection," repeated Lord McGuffin, "this means only one thing."

Oblivious to the mercenaries marching around the interior yard just below the mezzanine, Elinor DunBroch was pacing restlessly. Mr. Corona had refused to see anyone, including herself, after losing contact with the Stabbingtons that held his daughter hostage, and such a man being in such a state could only mean trouble. The golden frills of her dark green, pleated crinoline brushed the metal floor as she walked, ever so slightly muffling the echo of her elaborate pumps. The red, orange and lilac tall feathers over her hat wavered regularly, bouncing off the thin lace veil before her eyes. Her hands nervously clutched the gold-embroidered fabric of her corset. Her hair, held up in a sophisticated braided bun ornate with cog-shaped pins of different sizes, was silently beaded with sweat.

"What is the last thing we heard from them?"

"Through the recordings our experts obtained by tweaking with their radiomessage frequency bands, everything indicates an extremely powerful deflagration cut off the signal. What we can most likely infer is that the zeppelin suffered a technical incident, maybe there was a fuel leakage or…"

"This doesn't mean that Miss Rapunzel Corona is …"

She interrupted herself, too disturbed to continue. After all, Jerome was a parent of an only daughter far away from his control, just as she was.

"I regret to reiterate it, but Mr. Corona will listen to no one, not even you, madam."

"Milord, I am not even asking to talk to him as a trade partner or as an advisor, but as a mother. I have a daughter, too, and the Man in the Moon knows how many times I have feared for her life and taken rash decisions. Miss Corona has travelled thus far on her own for the first time, and I understand her father is… destabilised, but allow me to offer my experience and counsel."

A squadron of soldiers unceremoniously ran in between them, somewhat crumpling her expensive skirts. She withheld a swearword, before whipping out her crimson fan embroidered with the bear of DunBroch.

"What on Earth is wrong with them?"

"Ma'am, apologies," their leader called out, still jogging. "Mr. Corona's taken the command himself, and asked for everyone to be ready to fly out."

"But our flotilla is not going anywhere until we agree on attack plan on the Drifter camp with Stoick the Vast?"

"Nay, Ma'am, we're striking the Weselton Exposition."

The Weselton Exposition. Her whalebone fan fell to the floor with a sharp sound. A mute gasp escaped from her lips. _The Weselton Exposition_. Oh, Merida, her one and only, her brave and beautiful daughter. _The. Weselton. Exposition_. She watched powerless as her own troops marched out in perfect order, ready to attack the zeppelin her eldest child was aboard. She watched as the merciless game of power she had played in closed like a trap onto her, the mighty chessboard she lifted collapse onto her world. She watched as Jerome Corona was absent yet everywhere, in the heavy step of every soldier and the thunder of zeppelin turbines, in the regular breath of the running men and the clatter of arrows in quivers. She watched the man she had trusted and supported blinded by his rage, as things just got out of his control. She watched as his plan unfolded before her eyes, to take his bloody revenge on those Stabbingtons who dared touch his daughter, those Weseltons that hired them and those Andersens that sponsored those, all that she had contributed to antagonise. She watched as the gigantic automaton she had tried to handle tripped from its balance, as the equilibrium she had strived to maintain suddenly shattered like the hard but brittle shell of an egg. As the colossal engine of the Colonies rolled down the slope towards war, sparked by what seemed like a single zeppelin incident. There had been hostages, alliances, negotiations. But now the hells were about to break loose, and she could only watch with her the eyes of a woman and those of a mother.

Why did the machine of Fate, that maintained peace in every aspect of their lives, get jammed in by such petty bugs? An aircraft accident, a teenager's tantrum, young hopeful ambitions, curious juvenile love, innocent dreams for a better place. It was those puny accidents that were about to wreak havoc, ruining years of equilibrium into a future of chaos, all their destinies tumbling profoundly and irremediably intertwined.

Her hands found some comfort in the stark coldness of the thin iron rail of the mezzanine. Through her clammy fingers, a temporary sensation of calm rushed through her body. In a world of steel and steam where everything spun and whirled in terrifying synchronisation, what was there right against her skin felt so right, so _real_. Maybe she had some control, after all. Maybe she could seize her fate between her hands. She had to speak to the General.

 _One hour earlier_

Following Mrs. Evelyn Rose Corona's most insightful advice, in that time where she had nothing but fierce despair and a handful of ideas, Rapunzel was frying an egg. _Where_ she had even obtained an egg aboard a barge suspended to a zeppelin in the middle of the sky, flying over the Extremesian coastline, actually made perfect sense, as she had _asked_ for one from her captors. Ernest-not-Ernest and Not-Ernest-Ernest Stabbington being proudly from Cornucopia, they had eggs for breakfast aboard their airship, and could see no harm in satisfying her request when she had begged for one. _How on Earth_ – or rather, in the sky – she was going about frying it was slightly more interesting. Obviously, she was nowhere near a hob on her wooden boat. Even more obviously, there was no way the mercenaries could have given her a constellite-based heater or anything else that vaguely resembled a weapon. So that she stood, under the boiling sunlight over the wooden deck, hundreds of feet between her and the forest below, frying an egg in her frying-pan-mirror-compass-pocket watch, while one of the brothers, that she had mentally nicknamed Ernie, held a magnifying glass above the egg to focus the bright rays of the sun onto the raw egg.

The rather perplexed and hostile eyes around her ever so slightly narrowed as she attempted to flip it. The Stabbington brothers, noticing her distinctively Cornucopian taste when it came to the cuisine of egg, nodded to each other in approval. However, they dropped their smile to collectively face palm as she clumsily managed to get her egg to slide off the edge of her pan and fall onto the deck. A short instant of confusion occurred, followed by a quick succession of events.

Not-Ernie volunteered to bend down and scoop up the fallen half-cooked egg.

Rapunzel walloped him in the head with her frying pan.

Half a dozen guards ran towards her to immobilise her.

In the confusion, Eugene snatched the magnifying glass away from Ernie and ran towards the ship's mast.

Before anyone had time to realise what was going on, he crushed the glass lens with his boot and held up one of the shards to saw at the ropes that tied the sails to the mast. The brittle shard was not ideal, but he would have to do with whatever he found. With agility, he climbed up the wooden pole as he sliced off the knots. Some of the Stabbingtons' henchmen came after him, even though unsure of what his motives were, but he easily pushed them off with his boots. Rapunzel, on the other hand, was in more difficulty. After her initial advantage of surprise, she was quickly losing ground to the larger and better-trained mercenaries. Tripping over her own long braid, she fell down onto the deck. Immediately, strong arms grabbed her and pinned her against the figurehead. She gasped as Not-Ernie's imposing figure walked toward her, the blades on both his mechanical gauntlets fully expanded. And again as he slipped on some still-liquid egg that stained the deck.

Seizing her chance, she fiercely held out her pan in front of her. He was too far for her to even think of trying a throw, but she had another idea in mind. An accomplished young maiden of her kind was not without knowing that an incurved mirror could reflect and focus light ahead of it. Subtly tilting it, she managed to convey an intensely hot beam into Not-Ernie's left eye. The large man collapsed with a yelp. At last hours of sketching geometric ray diagrams had proven of certain usefulness.

Furious, Ernie had the sense to knock the weapon out of her hands. However, as it went flying into the air, the agile Flynn beat him at catching it. Knocking out his pursuers with a deft gesture, he cut off the last piece of rope, just beneath the surface of the zeppelin's belly, releasing the sturdy brown sail to beat in the wind. Contemplating their plan's progress, the blonde woman nodded at him, earning a beaming smolder in return.

Their satisfaction was short-lived. One-eyed Not-Ernie kicked the wooden mast with his bladed boot, causing it to collapse across the ship. The heavy sail covered the majority of the deck. From the figurehead, Rapunzel dashed across the fabric-covered planks towards her betrothed. He clung to the wooden pole in mid-air off the deck, desperately trying to reach the frying pan that dangled off the mast's end.

"Leave it! Get back on!" she yelled.

"You're not losing that thing. It contains the seed from your mother!"

"Forget it! I want you alive!"

"How? There's no way the plan's going to work - "

He was right, there was no way they could reach the zeppelin's belly and steal some helium to fill the sail and use it as a parachute. There was no way they were going to stay alive, let alone escape. The ship's mast had collapsed, and so had the central axle sustaining the well-oiled cogs of their crafty plan. They were going to…

" – PUNZ!" she heard Eugene call.

The young heiress turned around, alas too late. A mercenary, freeing himself from the sturdy sail, had shot a dart of raw constellite straight at her. Killing a hostage was pretty stupid. But also pretty efficient.

In a split second, Rapunzel's reflexes came alive. Her ball-game skills being truly deplorable, the chances she would have been able to react in any way sensible were rather minuscule. But as her mind, petrified in panic, refused to function, her instincts took control. She raised her palm in the air and…

"NO!" yelled Flynn.

… _caught_ the dart inside her hand. He watched as streams of blood poured from the delicate white palm where the impact hit. As, soundlessly, the constellite crystal grew at the contact of her skin into a small dendritic flower, gleaming suddenly yellow. As, progressively, her tangled plait of silky hair started to dimly glower in the same menacing hue of gold. As, without a word, she threw the sunlight-loaded crystal straight into the belly of the dirigible.

And the airship burst into flames. The inside gas, devoured by the golden fire, tore apart the fine envelope like the shell of a shattered egg, revealing the dark metallic skeleton against the brightness. Clouds of smoke burned the air, suffocating those on the barge's deck. A rain of debris fell over them, mercenaries, tradesmen and heiresses alike, sharp and incandescent. And they started to fall. Scraps of metal, fabric, wood and cinders filled Rapunzel's thick hair as she desperately reached out for Flynn.

Unsteadily clinging to the mast, in anti-gravity, she felt the rough wood against the thin fabric of her dress and the flying sparks and shards whipping her back. Whether she caught his hand or not, they would die. Whether they fell off or not, they would die. Whether the zeppelin's ignited carcass fell over them or not, they would die. Such was the engine of face, powerful and implacable, sending them to whirl to their impending doom. Such was the engine, so beautifully intricate, so intricately lethal, that was killing men grown and children, warriors and businessmen, employees and heirs, all of them into chaos and death. Such was the engine that could not care less about their petty agreements and betrayals, their negotiations and wars, their plans and hopes, for all would end up in an undistinguishable mess of carbonised flesh and bones. Such was the engines, and at least, oh, _she_ had been its gunman.

For a fraction of a second she contemplated the world beneath them, the emerald canopy and the imminent freedom.

She barely registered as Flynn seized her hand and sprung, bouncing off the mast and the falling ship, their fingers locked together, their sweaty and sooty skins against each other, their breaths intoxicatingly intertwined, for mere seconds.

They collided with the cold. With the dark. The dark and cold was all around them. Too icy, too painful, too tetanising, too _wet_ for them to possibly be dead. As Rapunzel finally dared to open her eyes underwater, the first thing she saw was the filaments of golden light slowly undulating, dimly illuminating the darkness. At first she mistook them for algae, before she realised that it was her hair set loose that was gently fluorescent, waving in the water before her eyes. She read the relief on Flynn's traits as he saw her wide open green eyes and felt the slight pressure of her fingers on his. The silence was serene. The silence was everything.

Abruptly she remembered a nursery rhyme from her childhood about a bright flower, and somehow her overwhelmed mind found it amusing. She realised he was confused by the laughter she struggled to stifle underwater. A stream of bubbles and life escaped from the corner of her lips, and icy water started to fill her mouth…

Then his lips met hers. Warm, tender, desperate, violent, hopeful. As the air filled her lungs again, a wave of raw emotion crashed through her body. Oh… The water was a turquoise calm around them. Her hair wrapped them in a delicate halo of golden strands. Her svelte fingers rested on the comfort of his chest, against the fold of his breast pocket…

His breast pocket that gleamed softly in gold. As she felt the small, hard object, she remembered the lantern's constellite core that they had hidden in there. Fumbling with the button, she eventually managed to extract it into her hand. With a swift wrist flick, she tossed it to explode in the darkness beneath them. The detonation, pushing the waters apart, propelled them upwards.

Arms, hair, lips, fingers interwoven, as two becoming one, they pierced the surface in a single flash of light.

They hardly knew how they ended up there, on the lake's bank, the tragic remnants of the barge, the zeppelin and their passengers floating over the surface, still aflame, illuminating the trees and the water's depths. They hardly knew how much time had elapsed. Well, Flynn had some idea, judging by the cramp in his arms from swimming and holding onto Rapunzel. The blonde young woman allowed herself a slight smile, staring into his hazel eyes. Her darkened wet hair was plastered to both their skins and clothes, entangled into their limbs and into the tree roots beneath them.

They ignored for how long they sat there, motionlessly and wordlessly, as the carnage finished to burn before them. Somewhat the rumble of a steamcar's motor interrupted their fitful daze. They could barely hear the diligent steps directed towards them, or make any sense out of the voices that addressed them.

"Sir, Madam, are you harmed?"

"Can you walk?"

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"Come with us."

"I'm Gerda, and that's Kai."

Dry arms helped them up, wrapping around their soaked bodies. They stumbled their way towards a graceful steamcar on a path between the tree roots, shaped like an elegant conch, all in visible brass machinery and nacre-tainted metal, large circular lights and windows staring at them like empty eyes. An impressive assortment of suitcases and hat boxes of all sizes and tones was strapped onto its roof, chocolate brown, royal blue, anise green, bright rose and patterned gold. The steam, produced by constellite heating, powered the intricate system of levers and pistons, releasing a puff of condensed vapour into the mangrove's hot air. Kai courteously opened the door, letting the two wet fugitives collapse onto the brown leather-covered banquette carved in tropical wood into abstract, flowing vegetal patterns. Gerda and Kai sat in the driver seats at the front of the vehicle, compartmented from the rest by a thick velvet curtain. It took them some time to notice that facing them sat a comely young woman, two symmetric strawberry blonde braids falling onto each of her shoulders, draped in a fashionable sky blue and pale fuchsia dress. A fresh smile parted her pink lips and coloured her freckled cheeks.

"You're… you're Rapunzel Corona!" she exclaimed enthusiastically.

Soaked and exhausted Punz could do nothing but confirm with a small nod. The warm gaze of her beautiful turquoise eyes slightly reassured her. She wanted to believe they were in no danger. Eugene mentally face palmed, hardly having the strength left to physically do so. What tiny scrap of a cover his wary mind was trying to patch up had been blow up in seconds.

"Miss Rapunzel of Crowsworth, I am so excited to finally meet you. I have heard about you so many times, even though a whole ocean has been separating us. Your father is an admirable man in every way, and he has raised a daughter who is in every aspect wet…- _xceptional_ , er… I'm so sorry to first meet you in such… unconventional ways, I mean… Do you want to come with us? Oh, it seems like I haven't really given you a choice, have I? We were on our way when we noticed your giant flaming mess, so we had to stop. We're heading towards Snowtown, where my fiancé owns a cotton plant. We left the Weselton Exposition by the sea to move into his place to get acquainted to his people and his family. He rides in a car ahead of ours with my eldest sister, I mean, of course _she_ wouldn't let me ride with him alone. Well, Hans and I have been engaged for, um, less than a month, in fact less than a week, in fact, less than a day. But we've known each other for about – oh, about a day? I have to warn you, my sister's a _bit_ … how to put this… _cold_? I mean, really beautiful and everything, but… oh, I'm so sorry! I've been so rude, I haven't even introduced myself! I'm Lady Anna, Baroness of Arendelle. You look famished, would you like something to eat?"

But all Rapunzel could wish for right then was a warm shower and a bed. Under its pocket watch form, her shapeshifting trinket safely sat in her closed fist. Resisting the drooping of her eyelids, she managed to stutter:

"Any – anything but fr – fried - "

"How about this?"

The cheerful baroness produced from her purse a beautifully ornate painted chocolate egg.

* * *

 **Fun fact: I watched the Hindenburg disaster 1937 footage to write the zeppelin crash. Pretty impressive stuff, I recommend it if you're bored. Also, I deliberately made Rapunzel kind-of-English even though she's suggested to be German in canon. My excuse is that the people in her film, all apart from herself and Mother Gothel (Pascal kind of works either way), have English-sounding names (i.e. Flynn Rider/Eugene Fitzeherbert and the Stabbington brothers). Why fluorescence – there is some light from above, including from the zeppelin on fire, and fluorescent things sometimes dimly shine in darkness (no, I did not mean phosphorescent). On a slightly different note, Hans did mean business with his joke threats at the Exposition ball, didn't he? ;)**

 **Announcement: Eh, I don't really have an announcement to make, other than Jack is in the next chapter (for those who are asking, because, yeah). The order of chapters, as you must have noticed, doesn't really cycle cleanly through the character PoV's anymore, as their plots are converging soon… Does this story even make sense? Please constructively comment, R &R, F&F, stay awesome etc. Right, I should get cracking on the next chapter… **


	13. Seeing and Believing

**So I wrote this chapter. It is pretty enormous, as expected. Hope you really like it. Thanks for everything.**

Noon30ish: Thanks so much, haha :) I don't even know whether this story is supposed to be cute, or tragic, or action-packed, or whatever, but as long as people are enjoying reading it and I have fun writing, it's kind of okay I guess… Yes, Rapunzel and Flynn's plot is getting increasingly entangled (pun totally intended) but some things are going to clear out when they join with the others, including about Punz's constellite-related abilities. I wanted to have her storyline start on another continent from the rest, so I had to cover a lot before having her meet the other cast members. I was a bit daunted by writing for her character at first, as Tangled was probably one of the films I don't like as much, but I really enjoyed writing the chapters with her and Flynn.

faisyah865: Lol, eggs are cool, so, yeah. I don't even like eggs that much in real life; they're an okay source of food. The plot's getting pretty messy with someone believing that others are dead in an accident while no one knows that some people have been killed etc. A recap of the mess is coming soon in one of the next chapters. Seriously though, thank you loaaaaads.

 **Chapter 13, where pyramids are featured, a strange plan happens to work pretty well, a series of curb-stomp fights follow and the author is still trying to make Jack and Hiccup look cute. Human!Alpha**

 **CW: violence, racism, death, mention of human sacrifice and genocide, mention of homophobia**

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Jack could not _believe_ any more. The day died at his feet with his last certainties, bleeding light as crimson as the blood of his fallen Guardians, over the steps of the Pyramid of the Moon at the end of the long mournful avenue that was the Huacans' cult centre. The site, aligned with the course of the sun along a single axis following the precise calculations of the Ancients, resembled an immense hovercraft when viewed from above. How old it was, Jack would never find out, as its stone pyramids had been standing for far longer than any Drifter tribe had ever been assembled, even longer than the colonists' zeppelins had ever floated over what was now known as Eastern Extremesia. The Huacans, usually nomadic and scattered, were reunited there only on great days of religious ceremonies, and this particular rising full moon marked the start of a brand new cycle.

"For tonight, he will pay for his crimes," announced Drago Bludvist, his proud ebony dreadlocks falling onto his tawny, scarred square shoulders as he slowly paced around Jack. "The Feathered Snake, the silver-haired invader come from the ocean who pretended to be a god and crowned himself a sun, will pay for misguiding and enslaving our people. For corrupting our souls and erasing the wealth of our past. Look before you, Huacans, and admire what our ancestors have built. Why hide away in an infertile and toxic stone quarry the White Ones have built, when we have been capable of such splendour? Why not live like our people have always lived, strong and proud of our traditions? It has been too many years we have been hiding away from the enemy, striking in the dead of night, retreating to our unnamed lairs. Too many years we have lived in fear from the White Ones, and see where that fear has led us: into veneration. Look at the Feathered Snake before you, which you accepted as a father and a leader. Look at him. He played with you and tricked you, mocking your hopes and your dreams with his mischievous smirk. You saw a god in him, you believed in him, and it came true."

And he was right, Jack thought with the last ounce of sarcasm that was left to him. What people believed in came true. Their visions became their beliefs, their beliefs became their visions. The crowd behind him and Drago was grunting and cheering in approval. The Huacans, the old and the new, joined their voices in support. The former Guardians stood amongst the ranks, without manacles or ties, garbed just as any other Drifter present. Jack could not see any of their faces, but he pictured their eyes gleaming with excitement and passion. A subordinate of Drago's maintained him onto his knees, hands bound with rope behind his back and wings savagely slashed, looking away from the audience onto the ritual site's avenue and the bloodied sunset.

"O Feathered Snake, look yourself and see that your time is revolved. The old day is falling and the new full moon is rising. Now is time for another sun, now is time for the old rules to return. In another life, Feathered Snake, you taught us the old rules and showed us an example. Now is time for you to leave us with just that again. According to the old rules, you tore off your heart as an offering to the one sun, the one true sun, for it to continue its journey across the sky and relieve us from the darkness. The sun wants blood, O Feathered Snake, and the Earth will drink it."

Their thirst may never be quenched, but Jack had seen enough blood. He had seen children of his tribe choking on their tears as crimson liquid poured out of their rose lips, just because they had been pale in complexion. He had seen Monty's juvenile shape pouncing off a branch onto the enemy camp, his frail body splayed out like a flying squirrel against the hard stony floor and his small spine fractured in an impossible posture. He had seen Pippa dangling off a creeper, her puny white feet suspended in mid-air, her pale face so calm she looked asleep as the liana strangled her. He had seen Claude, his brand new staff abruptly shattered still in his hand, fallen against the gleaming backdrop of the constellite tree he had attempted to protect. And of course, he had seen North, both sabres unsheathed, guarding the children fiercely until the last second, slashing at the enemy, ducking, parrying, stabbing, pouncing, slicing through wood and bone. He had seen him carve his way through the dense jungle of Huacans, taking no notice of the long shards of wood that poked through his leather outfit. He had seen the wondrous anger in his dark eyes, the menacing swing of his bloodstained beard, the lethally symmetric metallic dance of his blows. He had seen his blood, just as red as that of any human of any colour, pooled at his mighty feet. He had seen the last breath cross his tanned lips as he staggered against a wall, his last opponents slain before him. He had seen the rictus of victory sculpted forever onto his dark traits. He had seen a protector, a mentor, a father die right there in their camp, before his own eyes. He had seen the Huacans burning their dead and leave the fallen Guardians to rot. He had seen all that blood stain the sand, poured by his own hands. Jack had been vain, selfish, reckless. He had tried to prove himself to one that would never come back, one that would always despise him, one that all the ways of Nature forbid him to love. He had given away the lives of all his clan for a pair of green eyes and the silhouette of a glider he would never see again. And all he deserved was to stand and see the blood one last time, the blood pouring from his own chest to pay for the crimes he had committed in his carelessness.

"People of the Huacan, watch and believe. When his blood stains the steps erected by our ancestors, when the last rays of the golden steps vehemently burns it, when the coldness of the moon washes it away, the world will be reborn anew, under the light of a new sun. The Huacans will live as one, not scattered but assembled, not hiding but shining in the full sunlight, tall and powerful as the descendants of the builders of pyramids. The sun will be bright for us, and so will the winds. The hurricanes will blow away their filthy zeppelins from our coasts, the rains will pour until there is nothing left of their gold mines but mud, the ground will tremble and the volcanoes will erupt until the last of their companies is long dead. We will fight them, to the last drop of our blood and that of our ancestors, and we, people of the Huacan, will win. Then the Earth will be healed, the trees will regrow, the birds flutter and the snakes slither in safety once more, and we will be restored to our past splendour under the light of our benevolent sun, sated with the blood of the White Ones. Then, what we believe will truly be what we see."

Even as the shadow of himself, Jack could recognise the good words of a leader. Drago was a man who knew how to unite his people against a common enemy, who knew how to feed on their memories to grow their wonder into dreams, and their dreams into hopes. He was a visionary chief, one that could raise an army of Drifters to chase away the colonist invader. Even if he did not believe in the mythical delusions of his own words, he could ignite the flame burning inside every native and promise them they would see what they believed in. And as the last scrap of freedom he had, the silver-haired teenager closed his eyes in the blinding twilight, refusing to believe.

"Look, the sun is coming down to our feet; Quetzalcoatl is falling, stained with blood and shame. Look, the night is rising, even the fog is settling now."

And indeed it was. It was too befitting to be true. A hazy mist drifted from the sky onto the Pyramid of the Moon and the Avenue of the Dead. A fresh feeling of numbness invaded him, and with a small smile he felt himself gently drifting into sleep. It was a dream, just a dream, and he would never allow Drago to impose his reality to his oneiric realm. The crowed, bewildered, progressively fell into silence as the vision of the hovercraft-shaped site faded away in the steamy air, through which only the sunset's iridescent halo penetrated.

"Don't you dare passing out," sneered Drago's underling, giving Jack a painful shove. "They're here for the whole spectacle of your pain."

"Alphen," snapped his leader. "The blood of Quetzalcoatl is for the new _sun_ , not for _you_. Go get me that Valkyrie."

With a somewhat wary grump, Alphen the Beast walked away through the brown-skinned audience. Jack suppressed a sigh of meagre relief. At least Drago's right hand man would not be pestering him during his last minutes of life. It was too good to be true. As he raised his tearful eyes to the sky, he decided he definitely be dead or dreaming. And frankly, it hardly made a difference to him. For the familiar shape of Toothless was discernable through the thick mist, hovering right above his head. A dark shape dropped from the airship to the ground, with a small sound of detonation. Instinctively, Drago and the Huacans stepped back, towards the rear of the pyramid, all eyes focused on the dark shape that emerged through the intensifying mist.

"Do not kill him, barefoot Jack Frost is not the Feathered Snake you are looking for," said a calm, velvety voice Jack immediately recognised. Through the misty veils, the slender upper body of the newcomer grew increasingly visible. Jack revised his own status to completely dead. For the Hiccup that stood in front of him, as ethereal as a cloud, was so beautiful he was unrealistic. Jack knew, for having fixed his aeroglider, that he always kept a formal suit with him, but this particular one defied all expectations. The thick navy blue waistcoat, strong but supple, was richly ornate with golden gears and cogs masterfully imbricated, each exquisitely embossed with the emblem of Berk Steel. Jack had failed to recognise its stylised version on the porcelain mug, but found it plainly obvious on the suit. A white shirt, embroidered in circuit-like patterns in the finest golden threat, emphasised his elegant arms, assorted with a pastel green scarf around his well-shaped neck that was of the most precious pearl-studded silk Jack had ever seen. Draped over his shoulders was a jacket matching the waistcoat, as dark as the wings of a nocturnal dragon, its material just as smooth and stiff. Each of his cufflinks was a unique treasure of its own: miniature pocket watch, automaton multifunction screwdriver and repair tool, crystal lenses of a tiny folded spyglass and minuscule geometry of a brass compass. In place for a flower, in his buttonhole beamed a fountain pen made out of solid gold, its many parts perfectly imbricated into each other. His crafty hands were covered in white gloves that stopped at each wrist to reveal an ivory bracelet sculpted in a fashion so delicate it resembled a ribbon of lace. A dark top hat completed the ensemble; gorgeously sitting atop the gentleman's dashingly combed auburn hair, tall and proud. It bore a single brooch, a blue diamond sculpted into the shape of a snowflake, the old sigil of Miseralia, the most remarkably symmetric and precisely masterful piece of handiwork any of the Drifters had ever laid their eyes on. His emerald eyes shone with the greatest detached calm, staring into the fog's nothingness, the very image of the accomplished white gentleman and businessman from Centralesia.

"Jack Frost is but a child of the streets and a prankster of the dark slums of the Old Continent. He has been an irresponsible leader, but he is not the one you want. He is not the one the gods are claiming the blood of. The gods hate those haughty bourgeois and aristocrats who dare hunt on their own sacred lands, under the light of their sun and moon, who cut down their forests and poison their rivers. Your suns will only accept the heart of one of _them_ , that poor boy Jack Frost's will only increase their anger."

Drago Bludvist took a hesitant step towards the dark-haired young man's silhouette, his calculating eyes judging the intruder through the fog that had become impenetrable, unsure of what to think. Even the youth's voice sounded otherworldly, slightly metallic, slightly superhuman.

"I am Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, heir to the Berk Steel company of the Eastern Extremesian Colonies, and I have come to sacrifice my blood to the new sun. Take me in his stead. That barefoot man's heart is worth nothing compared to mine."

The Huacans, somehow increasing confused, saw him as the object of all their hate, their scorn, their disgust. He was one of those rich, spoiled children of the White Ones whose feet had never touched the dark ground beneath their arrogant zeppelins, whose alabaster skin had never been burnt by the merciless glare of the sun under their expensive parasols. He was a boy who lived off his family's revenues, whose new automaton toys and precious jewellery was paid by the sweat of the natives' brows, the blood of their feet and the tears of their eyes. He was one of those who mocked them casually, regarding them as less than human, as they paraded waving their beautifully embroidered handkerchiefs. They saw him as that picture, and they lusted for his blood and pain. Drago, however, saw that the challenger made them believe exactly what they wanted to believe, and looked at him in defensive defiance. The tall, cloaked and helmed figure of the Valkyrie by his side stood perfectly immobile, unreadable, contemplating the vision of the young gentleman through the fog.

"Take my heart, and the suns will be sated. Take my blood, and they will give you your revenge. Take my body, and you will wreak havoc in the whole engine of those merciless companies who cannot suffer a single hair cut off one of their most precious children. Take me, and you will see everything you believe in and have always believed in. The years of hiding in fear will be washed in purifying water."

The young man was as brave as he was clever, both Jack and Drago immediately perceived it. He had observed amd learned from both Drifter leaders, and he could talk a people into belief without a single drop of blood being shed. The Huacan and Guardian leaders stared at him, their eyes suddenly tired, attempting to decipher his plan in the hazy mist of his green eyes.

"Tlaloc, this is not yet the time of yours…" let out Drago in a wary breath.

By giving him a mythological coating equal to that of Jack, as the gentle god of rains and waters, the native chief unleashed the desire of fantastic vengeance in the mind of his people, expecting them to request the sacrifice of both the White Ones. The Huacans and Guardians believed what they saw and heard, and Jack still refused to.

His extremities felt numb, the pain of his wounds and bruises eased, and the Drifter drifted for the last time towards a death that seemed as calm as sleep. None of this was true. He was hallucinating, and none of this existed. The fog, the Drifter audience, Drago, Alphen and the Valkyrie, Toothless and even Hiccup. Especially Hiccup, with that serene smirk over his delicious lips, standing in the distance at the edge of the pyramid. Especially Hiccup, for _through_ his foggy head, in the darkness of the rising night sky he could see the _moon_.

 _Darkness. That's last thing I will remember. It was dark, it was cold, and I was scared. But then..._ _then I saw the Moon. It was so big, and it was so bright. It seemed to, chase the darkness away. And when it did... I wasn't scared anymore. Why I was there and what I was meant to do, that I've never known, and a part of me wonders if I ever will._

Jack looked at Hiccup again, slowly, from head to foot. And as his sharp eyes reached his knees, he saw them vanish into empty mist, through which he could barely distinguish a characteristic shape. The flower-like corolla of the horn of a gramophone. It was connected to the small square box of a radiomessenger, gleaming very dimly in constellite light.

The Drifter opened his young, acute ears, and he heard. Beyond the murmuring crowd, over the back edge of the pyramid, softly grumbled the motors of Toothless, forgotten by all as they tiredly stared at Hiccup. Diffused by the helices' wind, wafts of steam were blown towards them, enveloping them in the hazy blur that bore the slightest but trademark scent of Sandy's morphium. From the regular breathing and soft snore amongst the audience, Jack could tell that most the Huacans closest to the aircraft and furthest from himself were already asleep. Focusing further, he heard the typical spin of Sandy's Dreamometer, the hand-churned mirror machine rendering an image that was reflected right in front of everyone by an additional looking glass that Tooth was holding in mid-air above their heads. Jack ever so slightly smiled when he perceived the familiar buzzing of her clockwork wings, hovering atop the middle of the pyramid. The mirrors were oriented in a way to project onto the screen of mist before their eyes the image of Hiccup, who stood in his dining suit, radiomessenger in trouser pocket, atop the glass ceiling of Toothless.

Forcing himself not to inhale the sedative morphium, Jack could not help internally smirking. Hiccup, the green-eyed Hiccup had returned for him. He hardly cared whether that was true or not, he liked to believe that such a crazy plan could only be the young inventor's work.

Bludvist's sleepy mind took some time to realise what was going on. It was only as he stumbled to his knees that he had the notion of looking backwards into the fog, and see the vague silhouette of an airplane.

"Alphen, cover your face and get that ship!" he yelled to his right-hand man at the back of the crowd.

Immediately, the Drifter obeyed. Tossed onto the pyramid's hard stone surface, Hiccup scrambled to his feet. Impervious to the effects of the morphium thanks to the adrenaline-boosting herbs Tooth had given to him, he slid up his trouser leg to extract his constellite-powered plasma cutter from his prosthetic leg. Turning a knob, he extended the indigo jet to twice its usual length. The fast left-handed slashes of his incandescent weapon managed to surprise the native man and push him onto the dozing crowd. He raised his obsidian-bladed sword to block the blows, projecting a myriad of violet sparks into the misty air. As the larger man counter-attacked, Hiccup readied his guard. As his brain tried to find a way through, his fighting reflexes took over. Strike. Bend down. Block the blade and push it away. Attack the bare chest. Retreat. With the sun in his eyes and his metallic foot slipping over the stony floor, he was progressively outmatched by the superior strength and experience of his opponent. Aiming and the head and hitting his metallic leg, Alphen managed to make Hiccup fall onto his rear, his prosthesis rolling away from him. He could only raise his arm over his head as the massive shadow of the Drifter brought down his blade over him…

He barely heard the Huacan grunt as someone dragged him out of the way. Jack had knocked him unconscious using Hiccup's metallic leg, his ropes cut off by Tooth's sharp wings. The healer was engaged in combat against Drago, wielding and throwing her scalpels while hovering in mid-air, the Huacan simply deflecting her attacks with his spiky arm and knee protections. His Valkyrie had just taken up to confront Jack, who raised Hiccup's metal leg in protection against her long obsidian-pointed spear. The aviator, from the ground, loaded his crossbow and waited for a window. In a second he saw Drago's scarred hand grab onto Tooth's thin ankle and drag her towards him violently. In a second he saw the Valkyrie disarming Jack with an agile swing of her weapon. In a second, he shot.

His dart rebounded against the Valkyrie's spiky helm, causing her to stumble and turn around, with a whirl of her dark capes.

She looked at him, silent.

Drago looked at her, somewhat surprised.

In the short confusion, Tooth flipped a lever that accelerated the flutter of her wings, through a mechanism of imbricated cogs and golden torsional springs, dragging the Huacan leader up into the air. He hardly had any time to scream, before she pricked his hand with a needle-sharp blade, causing him to let go of her leg and fall onto the pyramid's rocky side.

Hiccup still looked at the Valkyrie, confused.

Both stood without a movement.

Then Tooth flew over the masked Huacan's head, a golden scalpel in each hand, ready to protect Hiccup and Jack. Immediately, the Valkyrie whirled her spear around, barely missing the healer's legs. Both fighters were exceptionally well-matched. The Guardian's rapidly fluttering mechanical winds and the surgically precise strikes of her short blades were met by the Huacan's ample spear swings, spinning near as fast as a glider's turbine, and her swift long strides concealed by the movements of her cape. The smaller woman propelled herself against her opponent's weapon's hard wood to acrobatically flip in the misty air, her colourful hair and ribbons floating around her as her blade-sharp wings sliced off the tallest spikes of the Valkyrie's helm. The dark warrior pounced upwards, locking her spear against Tooth's neck with both hands on either side, ignoring the glasstring wings that tore her cape into strips. Tooth attempted sink her scalpels into her enemy's fingers, without success. Her feet kicked ineffectively in the air at the taller Drifter.

Hiccup loaded his crossbow again, but Jack was faster. Springing onto the Valkyrie from behind, he locked both his bare feet onto her back and pulled off her helmet from the spike stumps, revealing a mane of tumbling caramel hair. Before Hiccup had time to react, she retaliated, hitting the white-haired boy with the blunt end of her weapon. Somehow, the aviator managed to catch him as he was tossed onto the floor. Tooth saw the diversion as an opportunity. She pulled out a knife from her belt and laid its blade over the other woman's white bare throat. Emerald eyes warily looked down at her, and in a split second she fell to the floor, the leather straps of her clockwork wings sliced off by her enemy. Her violet gaze was filled with fear as she saw the Valkyrie, blood dripping from her neck, look down at her in silence, spear in hand.

With a blast of indigo power, Toothless glided right over their heads, knocking the Huacan warrior over. Piloting unsteadily with one hand, Sandy opened the aircraft's door, reaching out to Tooth. The healer gladly seized her mate's hand and was pulled into the cockpit. Still holding onto a half-conscious Jack, Hiccup fumbled with the settings of his prosthetic leg. Rotating one of the multiple switches, he shot up a magnetic fish hook that locked onto the door handle. He pressed in the button, causing the rope to retract, pulling him upwards feet first along with Jack's weight he barely managed to hold onto.

Both young men landed inside the vessel, breathless and haggard. Hiccup let out a visible sigh of relief as the teenager's ice blue eyes fluttered open and the slightest shadow of a mischievous grin parted his parched lips. Jack saw the reassured emerald eyes, barely containing the overwhelming emotions that flowed out from him. The aviator's warm fingers wiped off the blood on his temple, their agreeable touch sending electric tingles across his scalp. Even covered in sand, sweat and blood, clothes torn and hair unkempt, he looked ravishing. Hiccup's mature traits were illuminated by a tender smile.

In that instant, Jack decided he was alive. He hardly knew what he believed in or not, for all he felt was a hope somewhat fulfilled, as he lay there just breathing, the inventor's hands gently playing with his thin silver hair. His eyes counted the trace of every freckle over Hiccup's face, like one counted snowflakes by a window in winter, afraid that the moment, beautiful in its unique imperfection, might melt away into a memory. The Man in the Moon had only given him a point to start on, and from there Jack could start drawing his own reality, on a page as white as pristine frost.

"Do you believe in me?" whispered Hiccup teasingly, interrupting his thoughts.

He felt the plane accelerate into the sunset and away from the morphium mist, an increasingly confident Sandy in control. Amber sunrays drifted through Toothless's roof onto Hiccup's face, lighting up the fiery reflections of his auburn hair and making his forest-tinted irises shine like watery suns.

"I don't know," he responded, playfully nipping the aviator's nose. "But I believe in _us_."

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 **Fun fact: This isn't an AU for no reason ;) I advise you against using this as your sole mythological reference, would you be tempted to. The Teotihuacan does have a spacecraft-like shape terminated by the Pyramid of the Moon, at the end of the Avenue of the Dead. As a divergence from 'real' myths, Quetzalcoatl, the second sun, is generally depicted as a bearded individual, unlike Jack in this story. Other resemblances are conserved though: (recapping from previous A/N?) white hair, coming from the sea, loving of his people as they are, opposed to human sacrifice, (in some other story) offered up his heart for the sun to continue its course. Drago matches Hiccup to Tlaloc, the third sun, the supreme god of rain, for his blue and green colour scheme, his association with water and mist and his benevolent nature. However, Hiccup is, under this semblance, more similar to (the black) Tezcatlipoca a.k.a. 'Smoking Mirror' in this chapter at least, the first sun, for his missing lower leg (that his suit conceals at first) and for his usage of mirrors in strategy. Throughout the story there will be more about which one of the two he is more like… Alphen's weapon, an obsidian-bladed sword, is actually a symbol of Tezcatlipoca's, volcanic obsidian being quite commonly used in weapons. Alphen is the human version of Drago's Alpha Bewilderbeast. The Valkyrie… is just being the Valkyrie, and I'm sure you can have a guess at who she is. I quite enjoy woman-vs-woman combat, which is easily more fast and fun than guys hitting each others with sticks. I do believe in some interdependence between Norse and Aztec pantheons, as supported by the Ericsson-Quetzalcoatl-type theories, and it is played up a bit in this story. I also think there should be some (more?) Big Five/Five Aztec Sun fanfics, just as there is fairytale or Egyptian or Norse AU king of things… it seems funny. Sorry for long author's note.**

 **Announcement: I added a general disclaimer in the first chapter of this story, so there will be no disclaimer at the start of every chapter, unless there is anything not already covered by the initial disclaimer. I can't be bothered to remove the disclaimer before each existing chapter though, so yeah. Please R &R, F&F, constructively comment, so much love xxx**


	14. Anachronism Stew

**When I said no OC's, I lied. I did so on purpose because I am on the naughty list, and to be able to write it in this A/N because it sounds cool.**

faisyah865: Thanks an awful lot. Everyone will get a bit godly as this story goes on, to somewhat different degrees, which will give me an excuse to spend half a (Cambria 11, A4) page to describe their clothes in teeny tiny detail. As to cuteness… ditto. ['can something have 5+ interwoven plotlines involving death, politics and gray morality at the same time be fluffy and cute? Oh, the attractiveness of fanservice…' mumbled the author to themselves]

 **The characters in this chapter won't appear much at all, but they are important in the plot. You'll undoubtedly find out that they are heavily inspired by many fictional and real people. This is supposed to be short, crazy and different, hope you enjoy**

 **Chapter 14, where the full title is 'Anachronism Stew Perfumed with Delicately Sliced Fresh Herbs'... enough said.**

 **CW: racism, [title is a trope name, OC, heavy anachronisms, weirdness]**

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"Could you pass me the salt, Chancellor?"

The Queen sat on her throne, in the highest room of her Tower of Albion, her nacre-white hand casually twirling with her impeccably curled bob, so dark crimson it looked almost black. Her black micro-diamond-studded eyelashes blinked slowly, revealing the intense scarlet tint of her brand new glasstring holographic contact lenses. Her emerald earrings softly dangled on both sides of her heart-shaped face, matching the tiny crown that sat atop her voluminous dark locks. With a slight flick of her wrist, she expanded the multiple of imbricated pieces of the golden clockwork claws that prolonged her left hand, waving them in the empty air in front of her to dispatch three-dimensional holograms that only she could see. All the Chancellor could observe, on the ebony dozen-body-length-long table that was between them, was the mute black swan of Camfordshire stuffed with a pheasant stuffed with a goose stuffed with a chicken, its wings splayed out and its beak holding a blood red apple, the sizzling, still jumping frogs of Northern Cornucopia deep-fried in gold nanoparticles, the perfectly aligned cupcakes sprinkled with Southeastern Extremesian cocoa over which blue iridescent morpho butterflies fluttered, the forest of assorted Prussoroman greens that grew by the second on a dimly glimmering constellite lagoon, the roasted wyvern's head gurgling out maple syrup atop the hundred-and-one layers of the cream cake, each representing a prefecture of the Empire and, last but not least, the most delicious stew he had ever plunged his pure silver spork into, perfumed with delicately sliced fresh herbs from the Queen's personal kitchen garden. Granted, that was not too little, but nowhere over the massive lunch table could he spot a single grain of salt. He saw the Queen impatiently wiping off the blood dripping from her fangs, waiting for her orders to be executed. After all, she was her Royal Majesty the Queen of Cornucopia, Serenissima Empress of the Colonies of Extremesia, High Consul of the Territories of Elephantine and Most Graceful Protector of the Realm of Kangaria. She hardly expected to wait for anything.

She subtly shifted on her seat, the myriad of identical folds of her exquisite lace collerette rustling against the finely sculpted ivory throne, such that the Chancellor could barely see where the collerette stopped and the chair started. As she moved, the constellite-powered rockets at the four feet of the throne adjusted their orientation to maintain sovereign and chair in levitating equilibrium. With dainty elegance, she picked up her own spork and contemplated her sculptural image in the gold's reflective surface.

"Mirror, mirror, tell me… should I?" she whispered with the slightest hint of bemusement.

On the incurved reflection of the piece of cutlery, she could see her automaton majordome approaching, black top hat tilted on large brown walrus head.

"Should I have his head off?"

The robot stood desperately silent and motionless, its mechanical eyes staring blankly back at her, until she gave up with a refined pout of her blood-red lips.

"Fine, send the ravens."

The majordome mechanically moved backwards, as a murder of crows dove down from the tower's high ceiling, carrying vials of salt grains of more shapes, sizes and colours than one could possibly enumerate. Pensively she chose a turquoise crystalline powder from the Mountains of Silk and sprinkled it atop her incandescent hot chocolate. Plucking a feather off the closest bird, she scribbled a few words – using the prune gravy as ink – onto her table handkerchief. She tied the message to the bird's leg and sent it off to the Chancellor.

 _"_ _You seem very silent."_

Of course the message was unsigned, as any member of the Royal Family of Cornucopia; its author was given no _name_ upon birth, only titles. Uncomfortably, the Chancellor cleared his throat.

"You Majesty, the pleasures of your presence and your table are of the most exquisite. I requested an audience to discuss the pressing matters of the situation in Eastern Extremesia."

"I have seen your General's report, Chancellor. The savage tribes of the Huacan area have joined forces. Corona & Sons hired some mercenaries to raid the Company of the Southern Isles at the Weselton Exposition."

"Your Majesty, a course of action should be immediately taken."

"Chancellor, your men of the Chamber want me to revoke the monopoly I gave the Southern Isles Company on the trade of weapons and transportation, as a form of appeasement to Corona & Sons. Those carrion-eaters of your kind are playing meagre political chess for a scrap of gold Jerome Corona and his likes will give them. Those men who believe themselves representatives of the brave people of Cornucopia hardly fool me when they pretend to support the cause of the Empire."

"Your Majesty, I – "

"I do not believe in fanning the flames until they start burning down my skirts. I will not revoke the monopoly, for only more chaos will follow. On the contrary, we might want to let the coals burn until they entirely consume themselves and grow our roses on the ashes."

"What are your orders, Your Majesty?"

"Marshmallow, my broadsword."

So she _was_ going to have his head. She _was_ going to take her revenge for the salt. He knew that he should have thought of calling the birds for the condiments. The Queen of Cornucopia was beautiful and merciless. She may cut off any _head_ she desired to. All that with the most delectable hit of a sigh lifting the ample ivory-pale cleavage displayed by the low-cut crimson lace of her black lion-pelt dress. Cold sweat beaded his hands as he saw the immense constellite-powered ice golem peer through the door, holding the gigantic weapon that looked no larger than a toothpick between its hand-like appendices. With surprising strength for her slender stature, the Queen seized the broadsword with both hands and brandished it straight in front of her.

"Archduke of Spades, Chancellor of the White and Black Chambers, I, Queen of Cornucopia, hereby name you Viceroy of my Empire of Eastern Extremesia."

From across the colossal table, the man bowed in respect and amazement. He was only the second Viceroy in the history of Eastern Extremesia, the first one having been beheaded half a century ago by the current Queen's grandmother, affectionately nicknamed the Queen of Hearts by her loving people. Well, seeing the wrath she had just demonstrated against him, he could hardly complain about the outcome so far.

"Rise, Viceroy. The Black and the White Chambers have no say in this, tell me your own plans and they shall be executed."

"Your Majesty, I cannot…"

The Queen irritably played with her crystal fan, contemplating the moving displays on its surface that doubled as a tactile screen, its fine cables geometrically running beneath the glimmering surface. The Chancellor swallowed before going straight to the point.

"I would send the General himself, Your Majesty. He is highly experienced with the military situation there, and much more than enough equipped technically. He will act as a neutral third party and force the Drifters into submission. That demonstration of the power of the Crown should be enough to obtained renewed vows of allegiance from all sides of the armed conflict at the Exposition."

"Excellent," the Queen commented impassibly, using her fan's integrated microcamera to examine her elaborate red rose manicure at submillimeter precision, her sword ominously resting against the side of her levitating throne. "This is why the power is better between the hands of one man with one plan than a crowd of colourless vultures. I knew I could trust you to take drastic measures to solve all problems at once."

"What of the natives, Your Majesty? After their defeat, what shall be done with them?"

"You are the Viceroy, you shall tell me."

"They are ignorant, primitive, fanatics of false gods and of human sacrifice, but they are _men_ , and as such they can learn. Those savages should be educated by our laws, raised in the belief of the gentle Man in the Sky. Until we civilise them, no durable balance can be achieved. There are too many of them for us to be able to deal with otherwise."

"You are one of those optimists who think that people can be _changed_ ," she noted with a touch of melancholy. "What makes you believe so? One of your author friends scribbling on their desks never even stepping outside their door? Or those Spaniard warlords who converted Northern Extremesia with storm and blood to the religion of their mysterious Man in the Moon?"

"It has been done, Your Majesty. It has been done on a small tribe, by a lone young man, but nevertheless it has, and the General is the best one to know this. He is the exact right man for the situation."

"Then send the General aboard the Nightmare as soon as you can. Grant him the right to use the Onyx if needed. If all the Companies, the mercenaries and the savages tremble in fear before it, we will avoid the financial costs of bloodshed on the other side of the ocean."

"The Onyx, Your Majesty? Is it… er, I mean… of course, your Majesty."

The Queen smiled quite fondly, briefly revealing her sharp white fangs in the process. As ruler of Cornucopia, she was also the highest Priestess of the Man in the Sky, and a fervent believer that he had made her Cornucopians his chosen people, giving them an Empire where others had scraps of forest and sand. To her mind, the natives and colonists would never be equals, and only fear would keep the natives in order, not education or belief. To the Queen, what the Man in the Sky had made crooked could not be straightened, and the savages would always be savages at heart.

"But this is not what you have come to discuss, Viceroy," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "I have heard you have a name to suggest for my succession."

"I do, Your Majesty."

The Queen's younger brother, the Crown Prince and Defender Beyond the Wall, was in age to marry, and proposals for his hand were not rare. The Cornucopian law required the sovereign to be a woman. If the Crown Prince married, he would become his wife's consort if she accessed the throne. If he was unmarried by the time a new monarch was needed, he transitioned to become the new Queen. The present ruler had been crowned in such a way after her mother's abdication. The name the Viceroy gave for her succession was crucial to the future of the kingdom and its colonies. He carefully folded the note he had prepared and handed it to a raven that flew over to the throne.

She arched a perfectly shaped dark eyebrow with genuine interest as she read the name.

"She bears no blue blood, even though her father recently bought a noble name and estate. Her family is immensely rich and influential. Oh, and I see why you, amongst everyone, would give me this name. Let the Crown Prince meet her, and see what follows. After all, how can they govern together smoothly should he not _love_ her?"

One of the oldest and most ridiculous traditions of Cornucopia was for the Crown Prince himself to choose his spouse. Both the Queen and the Viceroy followed it with some annoyance, while their people outside the Tower salivated at the idea of _true love_ , wished for lowered taxes after the wedding day and for more bread upon the birth of their first child, returning to their own affairs of their lives on other days. All the Viceroy could do was hope that the Prince fell for his chosen one.

"Well, I'll let my brother hear her name. Many thanks for your service, Viceroy."

Far away from the Tower, from Albion the White, from Cornucopia and from the Old Continent, the Viceroy and his Queen, who believed themselves as puppeteers, ignored that their own pets and automatons kept some secret from them, by ignorance or by choice.

First, the General's trusted source had omitted the fact that her own gingerhead of a daughter was the reason why she was reluctant to open fire on the Weselton Exposition.

Second, the informer herself had no knowledge that said gingerhead had escaped said Exposition with an axe-wielding friend to save a certain crazily genial aviator and his budding love.

Third, most ignored that said budding love, who also _happened_ to be the 'lone young man' who demonstrated the possibility of assimilation, had seen a third of his tribe decimated, in the silence of the rainforest's cover.

Fourth, none of them yet knew that the very cause of the raid over the Exposition and source of all their problems _happened_ to be the Viceroy's own eligible bachelorette's supposed kidnapping and death, and that she _happened_ to be alive and free despite what most might have believed.

Fifth, all yet ignored that said bachelorette had been rescued by a certain baroness, who _happened_ to have vaguely larger plans for all of these improbable misfits.

Oblivious to these petty entangled fates, the man made the note to add the #Viceroy hashtag when he posted his selfie of the day with his clockwork camera ring before leaving the table, with a neatly composed assortment of singing white and red rose pudding slices topped with whipping cream of the Northern Isles of Rosalba, a couple of fluttering hummingbird pie in camel cheese sauce, a handful of gooseberries in bear juice straight from the mountains of Northern Extremesia, a selection of éclairs of the most recently fashionable diamond paste flavour and least but definitely not least, the oh-so-heavenly stew.

* * *

 **Fun fact: You've probably spotted most of the references to female monarchs in fiction, as well as the very loose parallels Queen/Victoria I, Chancellor/Benjamin Disraeli and the very** ** _very_** **loose parallels Queen/Elizabeth I, General/Francis Drake. I did NOT have in mind while writing this chapter that Queen Elizabeth I never married or that there is some far-fetched conspiracy theory she may be a man in disguise (or that the British Royal Family are lizard people). This is an AU, so there are unusual laws and traditions, deal with it :)**

 **Author's mistake of the day: I am rather confused as to which one of the three bear heads on an interwoven pattern and the vertical dagger in a circle is DunBroch clan's emblem and by extension, Merida's. For this story, I have stuck to and will stick to the Bear of DunBroch as an emblem.**

 **Announcement: Everything in this story so far was planned to build up to the previous chapter and the following 1-2 chapters. As you may have guessed, this will clearly be the end of the** ** _first part_** **of the book. For story-building and personal schedule-related reasons, I cannot guarantee I'll update as often after that, but I'll try to keep a regular posting schedule (as in once a week or so, unless I have a burst of inspiration and free time.) That will also allow me to have time to receive and take account of** ** _feedback_** **you have on the first part. So please R &R, F&F, ****_constructively comment_** **,** ** _stay awesome_** **xx**


	15. Little Snow Princess

**Thanks for everything. Plots are progressively coming together…**

faisyah865: Thank you so very very much! It means a lot to me :)

 **Chapter 15, where Anna does not build a snowman, Merida shoots for someone else's hands and mess ensues, as usual.**

 **Rating is slightly debatable for this chapter, I am experimenting with rather elusive and implicit sexual content, be warned. No explicit mention of body parts.**

 **CW: mentions of sexual content, mentioned nudity, slavery, racism, violence**

 **edit: (20/06/2015) just updated this chapter... removed at least two plot holes and fixed a few details. I am also considering changing the title.**

* * *

The fields were covered in white, just like the snowy landscapes of her childhood. White that cluttered every branch, clustered on every leaf, traced the parallel line of every furrow all the way to the horizon, white glowing in a dim golden haze in the bright sunlight. Indoors, meanwhile, under the swarming heat, the white-painted colonial mansion's hundred and one fans spun in perfect synchronisation from the richly sculpted wooden ceilings, vaguely shining in constellite blue. The elegant pavilion and the immense cotton plantation that surrounded it was supposedly one of the more modest holiday residences of the Andersen family.

But Anna's back was turned away from the window. She sat cross-legged on the white sheets of the four-poster bed ornate with cast iron ivy spirals, a thin blanket wrapped around her freckled shoulders. Her hair, she knew from experience, was an absolute disaster. It diverged out in all directions from her head, red strands and silver extension alike, twisted and knotted in improbable angles. Her eyes warily scanned the white room, the gigantic closed cupboard carved out of a single pine tree of Northern Cornucopia, beyond the wall and the assorted suitcases on the chequered floor, half-unpacked, lace hats and unmatched stockings lying around like stranded jellyfish. At the corner of her vision, she was vaguely aware of the almost empty bin.

Her legs were aching, her thighs sore. The inside of her was still vivid with physical memories of the night. What had she expected? Of course it had been awkward. Considering their total inexperience as well as the fact she was _constantly_ awkward, that was hardly a surprise. Yes, they had stifled many a giggle beneath the thin sheets. Of course he had hurt her. Of course she had hurt him. Of course she still loved him. Now what?

Anna was too lethargic to move. Instead, she opened her ears and listened. The surprise guests must still be asleep; she could hear nothing from their room and no sign of the barefoot girl throughout the empty halls. That was expected, since they must be still under the jetlag's effects, exhausted from the incidents and that Miss Corona was recovering from a large but superficial hand injury Kai had immediately bandaged upon their arrival. The diligent step of Hans's boots was nowhere to be heard either. He had left early in the morning, probably to the closest town to run some errands. She perceived the swift sweeps of the broom from a servant from Elephantine, as well as the rumbling oven in the kitchens and the regular snaps of cotton cut off outside the window. As to her sister, there was no way to guess what she was up to.

While Anna had been too young to properly know them, Elsa had been profoundly affected by the passing of their parents, Agdar and Idunn of Arendelle, in a zeppelin accident on a visit to what would become Plant Alpha. Additionally to the grief of their loss, Elsa had inherited the responsibility as head of the Arendelle family, along with a handful of debts and a cackle of suitors. The young heiress had retracted into loneliness amongst her books, even shutting out her own sister and only dealing with formal matters by mail.

In an effort to put her isolation to an end, Anna had come up with the idea that they could do with some travelling. Such that she somewhat sceptically accepted the Duke of Weselton's patronage offer and convinced Elsa to fly across the Atlantic with her, Gerda and Kai, aboard the Duke's personal zeppelin. Her plan had proved quite successful, too, as both sisters were distracted by the curiosities of the New World escaping the pages of their favourite books to come to life before their eyes. However, Elsa had fallen back into mutism upon Hans and Anna's engagement. She had simply stated that she could not marry someone she had just met, and refused to comment any further. Anna had gratefully accepted her betrothed's offer to move away from the Exposition for a few days. While the official motive was to imply the Andersens' success in taking over the Arendelles' patronage from the Duke of Weselton, Anna was glad that gave Elsa some space away from the eclectic agitation of the Exposition.

For once, nothing was in her way… or so it seemed, until a zeppelin almost crashed over her steamcar and two survivors had been found by Kai and Gerda. Survivors that were the heiress and a tradesman of the all-powerful Corona & Sons, rising competitor of Hans's family empire. Survivors that also appeared to have eloped from the other side of the ocean, hastily _engaged_. How generous, how thoughtless it was for Anna to have rescued them. Of course, it was nothing but courtesy from a lady of her birth. However, she hardly knew how to deal with an introverted sibling and a couple on their honeymoon under her roof while Hans was away from her.

Anna missed him already. She missed the burning touch of his lips against her freckled skin, the roughness of his sideburns beneath her exploring fingers, the caresses of his hands that were at once forceful and fragile. She missed the whispers he poured into her ear, endlessly, until they lost all their sense, the wordless gasps liberated in the midst of night, the powerful regularity of his heavy breath as they lay exhausted amongst the sheets, hand in hand. She missed the quiet buzz of the insects in the calm obscurity outside, echoing the uneven pounding of her little heart.

She missed him, and that was _wrong_. Not wrong because such lustful thoughts should not stain the pristine mind of an innocent young lady such as herself. Not even wrong because her thoughts were _sinful_ at all, she was too well-read to believe such common nonsense. It was wrong because it was all too _easy_ , too primitive and primordial. She was afraid she had given up a life of sophistication and costumes to jettison her youth and vitality in a pleasure that was hardly worth anything. She felt the lure of dependence, the bestial machinery of life itself that made her a pendulum rotating around the fulcrum that Hans was, in repeated oscillations of her helpless body against his. She feared to be too close from the fire and the ice, to be consumed like an icicle in a brazier, to be choked like a beating heart suddenly frozen.

And there she sat, alone, a simple blanket against her skin. She was a woman, only a woman, and that had grown onto her. If she believed the omnipotent mechanisms of her society, her life should revolve around a man, in a household behind closed doors. But as it happened, she had a thing for _open doors_.

A woman of her situation was allowed to pick up some kind of _hobby_. She could open doors before her by taking up an axe and become a weaponry model, like a certain Miss Hofferson. She could open windows of paper by flipping through the pages of books, away from the hustling world that prized her azure eyes and icy heart, like her own sister Elsa. But none of these was Anna. She was a being of social interaction, one that graced ballrooms with her radiant awkwardness and drawing rooms with her eccentric repartee, one that the high society of Extremesia loved to despise for her naivety and to affectionately mock for her clumsiness. She was an outcast from the engine, and as such, she only seemed to cluster other outcasts around in her erratic wake.

A woman may as well open doors to a bunch of outcasts. In the elegant terms of her refined society, that was called _holding a_ _salon_. The general idea was to gather an eclectic crowd of supposedly unique minds and abilities around a room with profusion of tea, chocolate and other substances as well as books, automatons and spirited conversations on a backdrop of string quartet and ticking golden pocket watches. That was a hobby Anna could picture herself having, she reflected with a smile. There were already two other random misfits in the guest room, after all. Hans could easily cater for more of her _protégés_ , given the wealth and status of his family, as a display of his own intellectual prestige. Elsa could do with more educated minds like her own around her, to quietly discuss recent technologies and novel concepts rather than weather and ballroom gossip. And Anna could become a witty patron, an independent and influential thinker.

Once upon another time, in an equally white land, whenever she got bored, Little Snow Princess Anna would knock at her sister's door to beg her to come outside and build some cute and socially awkward snowman. In the colonial mansion amidst the cotton fields, she hoped she would be able to persuade Elsa to join her and her cute and socially awkward group of outcasts. With a smile floating upon her lips, she lengthily stretched, slipped on an emerald green silk dressing gown and walked to the neighbouring room, stopping before the white door painted with pale blue patterns.

Tock. Tock. Tock-tock. Tock.

* * *

Meanwhile, barely half an hour away by road, a man rode through the narrow streets of Bartolomé on a heavy steam-powered chariot full of large brown bags. A pale hood over his graceful traits, linen sand-coloured shirt and breeches and a leather belt carrying diverse utilities as his simple garb, he could easily have been mistaken for a mere cotton merchant. He usually went out incognito to hear news from the town without attracting attention, as the master of pretence and disguise that he was. Over years of practice, he had become an expert in the subtle arts of illusion and masquerade. Absent-mindedly, he tossed a copper coin to a peddler woman around a corner, which she avidly picked up with the hand that was not cradling a crying infant. She hardly looked at him at all, such that neither she nor the other inhabitants of the lively town noticed that he was Hans Andersen, absurdly wealthy member of the family that ruled the Company of the Southern Isles of Extremesia.

Bartolomé was a peculiar place. It was at the southernmost point of the frontier between the Cornucopian colonies and the Spaniard lands of Northeastern Extremesia. Encased in a range of low mountains by the eastern coastline, it was a small but busy trading post between north and south. Furs, silks, slaves and grain were sold in exchange for constellite, gold, cotton and spices. The sloped streets, narrow passages and paved plazas were full of colonists in pastel linen hats as well as natives in bright patchwork capes, priests in long robes sporting the emblem of the Man in the Moon and slaves exposing bare black shoulders to the hot air. Several dozens of colourful hot air balloons of diverse sizes floated alongside zeppelins bearing various crests, docked onto the high steel and wood constructions that served as aerial piers. A cemetery of aircraft pieces surrounded the small city, large dirigible carcasses laying between deflated balloon envelopes, glider wings, glass debris and scraps of metal from minuscule to colossal, exposing their incomplete or rusted intricacy to the sandy and dusty winds. Despite Bartolomé's modest size, there was hardly a thing that could not be found there. Between a row of large ceramic pots full of spices of all tints and scents, a busy open air theatre running an auction sale and the softly buffeting heavy carpets hanging down from a merchant's stand, Hans climbed down his vehicle before a small telephone cabin.

The telephone was the new raging fashion of Eastern Extremesia. Faster and more reliable than the typical radiomessage, the landline communication means had made its way to many well-off colonist households, Hans's pavilion on the cotton plant one of the very first. If the service was efficient, it was also expensive, and the young man preferred to use it only in this case of emergency. Swiftly, he inserted a handful of coins in the dedicated slot, paying little attention the little cogs and gears set in motion to swallow them. He dialled his residence's number using the torsional-spring-equipped circular brass quadrant, elegantly curved black figure after elegantly curved black figure. As the strident ringtone was heard on the other side of the line, he picked up the emitter in one hand and the receiver in the other.

"Hello?" said a male voice after a few seconds. "Mr. Andersen?"

"Kai? Could you give over to Lady Anna?"

"Immediately, sir."

He heard the steward's hasty footsteps throughout corridors and stairs of the vast mansion as he ran to find her.

"Hans? Hello?" spoke Anna's voice metallically through the phone.

"Anna, I have some important news from town. You may want to get Elsa to hear and your guests to hear, too."

"They're with me in the cabinet."

"The Weselton Exposition has been attacked by Corona & Sons. Many attendees have escaped by sea or by air; the casualties are unknown at this point. The Duke of Weselton is safe aboard my brothers' zeppelin flying due East at full speed towards our Isles. It appears, from my sources, that the DunBroch mercenaries were used to lead the assault, and that it was conducted by Jerome. Corona in retaliation for the kidnapping of his daughter by our own mercenaries the Stabbingtons. It also seems that Mr. Corona believes his daughter Miss Rapunzel did not survive the zeppelin crash."

"I'm here, I'm alive!" shouted Rapunzel at the telephone.

"There is no way your father knows that," answered Hans, "and it appears that it is too late to contact him. He has refused any communication with our emissaries and the Duke's; there is no way he will believe us no matter what we say. Luxographs just as well as recordings could have been made at any point. As to flying you to your family's zeppelin, the air space is far too risky for all of us right now."

"Well," Elsa commented, "the safest option is probably for Rapunzel to stay here until the situation calms down and her father accepts to talk to – what was _that_?"

Hans turned around towards the origin of the small detonation. Amongst the crowd gathered for the auction sales, a stout man brandished a placard announcing the plentiful sum of a hundred silver crowns for half a dozen slaves standing on stage, hands in iron cuffs. The said placard had been neatly pierced through the first zero by the constellite bullet of a pistol.

A new explosion was heard as the second zero underwent the same tragic fate. The crowd of bidders gasped, kerchiefs and fans wavering in agitation.

A third bullet hit the chain between a slave's cuffs, setting his hands free while leaving the rest of his dark naked body untouched. Immediately the man's ebony-coloured flew before his manhood, concealed only by his silvery beard. The audience followed the auctioneer's shocked gaze to stare upon the shooter. The silhouette uncovered her hood, letting an untamed mane of orange curls emerge. Pistol still in hand, she stepped forward.

"I am Merida, first born descendant of Clan DunBroch. Release them, or I'll shoot!"

She stomped her way up to the stage through the packed plaza, lifted a curved golden lever to charge her pistol, a deadly beautiful combination of metallic parts sliding against each other, and took aim straight at the auctioneer's balding head. Pure panic invaded his dark eyes.

" _Seize her_!" he shrieked.

Brutally pushing through the crowd, the militia that guarded the auction dashed towards her. And the audience broke loose. Some of them recognised the heiress of the perpetrators of the Exposition raid. Some saw a rich, spoiled girl disrupting their business on a whim, directing their animosity towards her. Some simply took advantage of the chaos to steal or to escape. The riot took over the plaza before the theatre, in a tempest of shouts, screams and entangled human limbs.

"Hans? Is everything all right?" he heard Anna's concerned words.

"It looks like there is a riot right before me, someone tried to free the slaves from an auction. I'll hang up."

" _Free_ the _slaves_?" For some reason, Anna sounded almost excited. "No. Stay in the cabin, stay safe. I want to know that you are safe. I love you."

"Anna, I love you too."

The DunBrochs were a relatively new clan in the Eastern Extremesian trade scene, such that Hans was hardly surprised that Merida was unaware of the status of slavery in the area. The Cornucopian colonies themselves forbid the usage of slaves, if not their trade. Thus, slavers often crossed the northern border to sell their finest specimens to the employers of Southeastern Extremesia. The slaves, usually prisoners of war bought off some tribe of Equatorial Elephantine, were freed upon purchase in Bartolomé, if sometimes only on the paper. Hans himself and countless other employers hired them for decent food portions and a symbolic salary as workers in fields, factories and mines. He had no particular pleasure in attending and bidding in the auctions, though he admitted it was the most efficient way to man a cotton plantation. Stepping into her shoes, he could understand Merida's anger and indignation.

"By Odin's beard," cursed a figure hooded in dark red in the crowd. If the redhead heiress was understandably offended, there was no reason she should behave as a child and wreak havoc everywhere she went. Astrid started to regret that she and Hiccup had agreed upon having her come along. According to their plan, their balloon was docked over the aerial port of Bartolomé while they wondered through the streets to replenish their water and food supplies before attempting to find Hiccup. To avoid the crowd and reach Merida, Astrid pounced onto a row of closed spice and pigment pots, cape flying in the air, shattering the pottery beneath her weight and releasing clouds of chilli, saffron, pepper, indigo or powdered tea leaves along with splashes of sunflower oil and blood-coloured wine.

As she expertly landed on the stage's wooden floor, some policemen confusedly likened her to a pamphlet of Berk Steel that happened to be pinned on a nearby wall. As they sprung towards her, she sank her axe blade into the wooden planks and used it to swing herself in mid-air around the handle, immediately neutralising her enemies with powerful wedge boot kicks. Oh, wearing riding pants rather than a skirt felt good, at times. It was imperative that she tried not to kill or injure anyone. Pushing a piston against the hilt of her weapon, she deposited a thick resin coating on both axe blades, as she often did in training against Hiccup or some other sparring partner. Using the axe to hit, parry or pull an enemy towards herself and deliver a punch, she efficiently made her way through the crowd, unstrapping her shield from her back as soon as she had enough space to.

Soon, she spotted her orange-haired friend, fiercely pushing her way through the maddened crowd with elbows and knees, her glaive thrown away to pin a soldier onto a column of the theatre through his bloodied arm. Her bow, strapped to the back of her black jackets with asymmetric buttonholes connected with silver chains, as well as her full quiver, against the solid fabric of her knee-length breeches chequered in dark green and red, hardly were of any help at the nearly inexistent distance to her opponents. Astrid decided Merida could well do with a non-injuring melee weapon. Trying to catch the redhead's gaze, conserving her shield on her left arm, she threw her axe through the air, hoping that the other young warrior would catch it. But trying to communicate with the headstrong archer mid-battle was a pointless effort. Merida ducked to avoid the flying object that got stuck on a nearby column supporting the theatre's wooden roof. Immediately seizing the opportunity, while Astrid was mentally face palming, she grabbed onto the battleaxe's handle to lunge herself into the air above the crowd, knocking out some policemen with knee kicks on the way. However, with both feet on the vertical surface on either side of the blade, its resin coating shattered, she struggled to free the axe from the wood. Pulling the trigger of the rifle part of the weapon, she used its recoil to propel herself over the stormy human sea, landing right into the Shield Maiden's arms.

She felt the other warrior's strong arms, covered in silver-skull-studded straps for diverse blades and munitions, wrapped around her, the legendary shield brushing against her stockings, platinum blonde rebellious strands from her messy fishtail braid caressing her freckled face, the warmth of her small, firm cleavage pouring onto her side through the sweaty leather corset. Astrid gave her a painful shove, a murderous light in her blue eyes.

"Why do you have to always break _everything_?"

The blonde fighter dropped her to the ground and pulled her along as the theatre's weight collapsed under the shattered column. As Merida swung around the axe to brush away heavy chains, freed cogs and other falling debris, Astrid lifted her shield over both their heads. They managed to barge their way off the stage, only to narrowly avoid a crashing carriage, releasing a puff of tiny feathers and agitated chicken. Tossing the animals away with their boots, the women looked for somewhere safe to hide until the riot got back under control. Amongst neighing horses, infuriated steamcars and drivers, tapestries flying in the wind and humans desperately pushing their way out of the entangled mess only stood a small telephone cabin that a small crowd was already trying to break into.

"Hans!" yelled Anna as she heard glass shatter at the other end of the line.

A large figure garbed in dark linen broke through the cabin's door, seizing Hans by the neck and lifting him off his feet. By reflex, he punched him with the microphone and steadily landed on his feet as the man released him in pain. Using the phone's curly cable as a whip, he lashed at the intruder, making him fall onto the human mass behind. Hans temporarily kept back the crazy crowd whipping and kicking symmetrically with both parts of the telephone, before barricading the door with his walking stick.

"Anna, call my aircraft to come for me, I just -"

He was interrupted by the constellite tip of an arrow lethally gleaming against his temple. The archer had easily slipped in under his cane, threateningly ordering him out with a tilt of her head, unkempt red curls bouncing off her shoulders. He saw another slender figure make its way in, acrobatically jumping over the makeshift door barricade.

" _HANS!_ " Anna shrieked in panic.

"Wait a second."

He was dead, so dead. He looked at the archer, then at the other warrior who seemed to be holding a battleaxe. And then he saw the gingerhead's expression in her eyes. Oh, she would never shoot him, she was too proudly brave to terminate an unarmed human on the phone. None of these two was capable of such a cowardly kill. Especially not when one cared so _much_ about the other. He entangled the telephone's cable around the axe-wielder's neck, threatening to choke her, before she had time to react. As her partner hesitated to shoot, he drew out the pommel of the thin sword sheathed inside his walking stick and slashed her arrow into two. Somewhat disconcerted, he felt the canon of the blonde woman's weapon, held as a rifle, against the thin fabric over his stomach.

"Excuse me, ladies, but it appears I am talking to my _fiancée_."

"Ladies?" echoed Anna, sounding more curious than jealous.

"Merida DunBroch, the archer of Plant Alpha, and Astrid Hofferson, the symbol of Berk Steel," snapped the Shield Maiden through the phone.

"Miss Hofferson!" exclaimed the Baroness of Arendelle excitedly.

A puzzled expression lifted Astrid's blonde eyebrow. She shared an intrigued gaze with Merida, while some unintelligible words chirped down the phone line on the explosive background of the riot outside.

"My ladies," Hans courteously spoke after an instant, "it appears that my fiancée and her sister the Ladies Anna and Elsa of Arendelle is willing to welcome you under our protection. I am Hans Andersen of the Company of the Southern Isles of Extremesia, and my personal zeppelin is coming for us from the aircraft cemetery."

Astrid let out a yelp of pure surprise and leaned her shield onto Merida's shoulder.

On the other side of the phone, Elsa gave an appreciative look at her sibling, reassured that her betrothed was still alive and well. Flynn shared a look with Rapunzel, her valid hand resting on his shoulder. A joyous light illuminated Anna's turquoise glare. She had it, her salon of extraordinary outcasts.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Astrid curses by Odin's beard, while Hiccup swears on Odin's eye. The Norse god of war and knowledge lost his eye as a result of his curiosity, therefore symbolising 'knowledge' part of his role, while the beard is the more Viking-like attribute that I liken to the 'war' aspect of his function. Also, neither Astrid nor Merida in their respective films injure or even** ** _try_** **to injure anyone. They both attack animals, bears for Merida and dragons for Astrid, even though it can be noticed they never hurt or kill any of them. Merida practices on targets rather than hunting for sport and swordfights to disarm rather than to kill. (Correct me if I am wrong…) This is why I thought they would both have a reluctance to kill humans, which Hans uses to his advantage in this chapter. Speaking of the devil, I personally find it pointless that Hans refrains from kissing Anna once she's at his mercy, before revealing his full plans to her. The explaining bit serves the audience rather than the characters, so it is partly justified. But the averted kiss just looks like a way for Disney to preserve Anna's 'kissing virginity' for Kristoff. You have the right to disagree; it is my personal view of that passage. It is intentionally subverted in this story.**

 **Announcement: I have no plans for explicit lemons in this story, I don't think they would do much to serve either the plot or the characters. However, if there is any mildly sexual scene, I will indicate a change in rating at the start of the chapter. Right, R &R, F&F, constructively comment, stay awesome xxx**


	16. Quetzalcoatl and Tlaloc

**Sooo… thanks for everything, as always. The first version of the previous chapter was kind of bad and full of plot holes, so I edited it. For those who haven't seen the update:**

 **\- Hans was camouflaging as a merchant to avoid being noticed when after important news and gossip.**

 **\- Merida and Astrid are in Bartolomé to meet Hiccup, Jack and the others, as planned, and to renew their food supplies.**

 **Right, this bit is basically the closing chapter of the** **first part** **of this story. The Big Five & Co are on their way to meeting each other and will be together from the start of the next part. It serves as a short and simple section epilogue, since the first wave of 'big' action already took place, and gives some of our favourite characters a well-deserved break. Hope you like it, please tell me what you think!**

 **Chapter 16, where fluff is plentiful (will explain the title) and mango tastes good.**

 **CW: discussion of death, mild sexual content, [appearance of a reptile, purple prose, fluff]**

* * *

"He was like… a father to you."

It was not a question, but a statement. Hiccup read the slightest hint of distress in the orphan's ice blue eyes at the mention of his 'father'. Having used up most of their constellite in the detour to the Huacan sanctuary and in the transport of four passengers, they had deployed the aeroglider's helium balloons to maintain it in flight, the turbines under either wing softly propelling the vessel forward. In order to remain hidden on their slow trajectory, they flew just beneath the cover of the canopy, amongst creepers thicker than their arms, branches curved and twisted like snakes, leaves of extraneous shapes sometimes as large as umbrellas, carrying droplets of crystal clear water, and occasional splashes of colour and scent from hanging fruit or growing blossoms. Faithful to his habits, Jack drifted from branch to branch, hung from liana to liana, helping the aircraft's balloons navigate amidst the dense canopy. Lying on his back on the glass ceiling of his plane, hands crossed behind his leg and valid leg folded up, Hiccup simply contemplated the Guardian's fluid agitation.

"North is… was everything to our people," answered Jack, thoughtfully sliding down the rope that connected the balloons to Toothless to sit down next to the inventor. "He was one of the first Guardians who were not a native of Southeastern Extremesia. He had settled in the quarry shortly before I found it. He played a major role in building the camp itself, the huts, the water collection and drain system… He was a technical man, a fierce fighter, a defender of children and a capable coordinator of men. He would have been a great leader, had he wanted to, but he was far too humble to desire so, and maybe it was precisely that humility that made him the ideal chief. However, North was too realistic, too _real_ for our young tribe. They needed someone mysterious, almost mystical, who could embody their youthful hopes. So they chose me. I might have had the looks and demeanour to play the part, but when it came to the knowledge and experience, North was the one who taught me everything. He was much more than a father; he was a mentor, a collaborator and a friend."

"Jack… I'm sorry."

Awkwardly he sat up to wrap his arm against the teenager's shoulders, feeling the lean, tough muscles under the thin fabric of his shirt. Jack's irises were but icebergs in a sea of contained tears. Hiccup saw his own distorted reflection over their humid surface. If he had not criticised the way Jack had peacefully led his tribe for years, the youthful leader would never have tried to bargain with the Huacans, he would never have been misunderstood and North along with countless other Guardians would still be alive. He, Hiccup the misfit, had felt the urge for change in an engine that had been perfectly churning and working without him. He, Hiccup the useless, had spoken his mind without thinking about the consequences, and managed to break the very thing he was trying to build.

"It's all my fault, as usual."

"It's not," Jack said slowly, a low tremor in his voice. "You little Centralesian _bourgeois_ and your _faults_. You are not all-powerful, you are not responsible for everything, you are not the centre of the world, come on. It's happened, that's all. After a series of confusions between different people who think differently, it's happened. The past is the past, and we must drift on with the wind."

Hiccup slightly nodded at the mention of the familiar Drifter proverb. He had always admired that free, forward-driven aspect of their culture.

"I… _hey_!"

The aviator almost slid off the glider's roof in surprise as Jack jumped from his side into the vacuum, diving through a myriad of small, sharp leaves. Immediately, a secure arm pinned him onto Toothless's carcass, and the Drifter was back on the vessel, right atop of him, a mischievous smile over his thin lips. His knees were on either sides of Hiccup's, diffusing a sensation of coolness through his lower body. He heaved himself over his left arm, his sculptural nose at mere inches from the aviator's, his fresh, forest-like scent invading his nostrils.

"Open your mouth," Jack ordered with a playful grin.

Deciding that, after interrupting a ceremony with unorthodox methods and ruining his most expensive suit in the process, forgetting his gentlemanly manners for an instant would hardly make a difference, Hiccup obeyed. The Guardian knelt up, swiftly pulled out a small knife from the aviator's belt, sliced off the side of an orange orb that sat in his palm and tucked it in between the other man's rose lips.

Trying to push out of his mind that a barefoot outlaw – and a gorgeous one, at that – had just fed him by hand, Hiccup attempted to identify the fruit. It was sweet, a tad sour, fibrous and soft.

"Mango?" he said, wiping the juice that disgracefully ran down his chin with the back of his hand.

"Wait… _have you never had mango_?"

"I have… I like mango… it's just that we just have in pudding and in chutney…"

"You colonists are a strange bunch," commented Jack with a smirk.

The blue-eyed Drifter examined the half dozen of mangoes he had thrown into his satchel.

"Sandy and Tooth are going to be happy, when they come back from their morning hunt. We might actually have a proper meal."

Hunting, fishing and gathering were abilities all Guardians possessed. With their experience, her reflexes and speed and his quietness and patience, they made good hunting partners. Jack and Hiccup were confident that they would climb back from the ground with enough game for the day.

"Sorry to ask… but… are Tooth and Sandy…"

"Yeah, they have been for a while now. It was always obvious really, since Sandy joined us. I knew that it would work out between her and Sandy way better than between her and I."

"You and…"

"Close friend from early teenage years. It seemed like a fun thing to try it out at the time, you know, for the experience and the memories."

"Well, my female childhood friend and training partner was adopted by my father as his daughter upon her parents' passing, so she's been my sister all the years that could have been awkward. I… don't think she saw me as anything else but a punching ball, anyways…"

"Is she the one who radiomessaged you?"

The aviator nodded, as the fresh memories he attempted to avoid resurfaced. Astrid had informed him of the attack upon the Weselton Exposition, the day before she and Merida had left. The two warriors had made it safely to Bartolomé, where they had been welcomed by Hans Andersen, youngest sibling of the family that led the Company of the Southern Isles to which Berk Steel was allegiant. According to Hans, Stoick had reported his men and effort on countering the raid from the DunBroch soldiers, hence breaking the notions of an alliance between their clans. Even though he was safely leading the defence from his Rumblehorn steamboat, Hiccup could not help but be worried for his father, his friends and his clan. But as they were right there and then, lonely and nearly weaponless on a civilian glider nearly out of constellite, there was hardly much they could do to help out. The wisest option, as Astrid and Hans had suggested, was for them to join the Andersens' mansion in their cotton field west of Bartolomé, a landmark that was hard to miss from the sky. For the moment, as they slowly advanced through the rainforest towards the north, all they could do was wait and restlessly keep themselves busy.

"I mean, Astrid is my closest and most trusted friend. I know what she suggests is probably the best, and she's got one of the land's best archers watching her back."

"I realised you trusted her," Jack spoke distractedly. "I just thought you… never mind. At least your father has dropped his plans of attacking our camp, as I've heard from her message."

"Well, as I said to Sandy and to Tooth, I was meant to fly to the quarry to warn you, except that I found more dead bodies than live ones when I arrived."

"So you weren't mad at me anymore?"

A touch of bitterness vibrated in the Guardian's youthful voice.

"I was, but I could not leave a whole people to be exterminated or colonised. The Guardians deserve to live as who they are."

The aviator's mature and even tone as well as the calm in his forest green eyes disappointed the silver-haired teenager.

"Then why did you rescue me when Tooth told you about what happened?"

"Because I'm crazy," he sighed. "As my old friend Fishlegs would say, that's what I hate about me… _what_?"

The Drifter was painfully attempting to stifle a burst of crystalline laughter. All the tension and emotion accumulated during the events of the last few days poured out at the rather lame joke, turned pure and clear as ice. Tears contained for so long, like the currents wrekcing a dam, rolled down his alabaster-pale cheeks as spoke in between giggles:

" _Fishlegs_? You have… a friend… called… that's…"

"Yeah, we have weird names, told you."

"That's the funniest one I've heard so far!" he exclaimed, somewhat recovering from his chuckles.

Gently, Hiccup moved towards the Drifter to wipe his joyful tears from his face. The contact of the chill, flawless white skin against his thumb was surprisingly pleasant. At the back of his mind, the voices reminding him of how rude that was hardly seemed to affect him. His crafty fingers traced the angle of Jack's proportionate cheekbone, gently brushing the still wet eyelashes as delicate and brave as snowflakes amidst the equatorial forest…

The plane lurched beneath their feet. Immediately, the Drifter pounced onto the branches to liberate the balloon ropes trapped between the interwoven creepers. Quickly, he parted the dark, curved shapes…

"Jack, no!"

Too late. The large brown snake within his fist wrapped against his arm, causing him to stumble off his branch. He spread out his limbs in his fall, only to realise that his wings had been torn out during his capture. His yelp of surprise got a nearby bird to flutter off, in a blur of green and vermillion feathers. Hiccup shot out a constellite dart from his crossbow, exploding a liana such that the balloons entangled with it ended up beneath Jack. His fall cushioned by the helium envelope, the Drifter manage to land softly next to the aviator. Rapidly, Hiccup drew his plasma cutter and swung it before the snake's head, making it slither away in fear before the powerful constellite beam into the immensity of the canopy.

"Thanks," breathed the silver-haired youth, panting lightly.

He pulled on the balloons with agility, freeing Toothless from the entangled climbers. Softly the plane resumed its motion forwards. Jack dropped to a crouch next to Hiccup, who was adjusting his constellite-powered tool back into his prosthetic leg. The young aviator, from the corner of his eye, saw the hint of amusement in the Drifter's sky blue eyes, and a plan of revenge for the mango episode hatched in his mind.

With his metal leg, he gave the other man a gentle push, making him fluidly roll over against the glass ceiling.

" _That_ 's for scaring me," he teased with a naughty smile, recounting the careless times of his younger years.

"And _that_ …"

He sprang at the Drifter lying in front of him, but he had no chance against someone as fast as Jack. He heavily landed against his plane's roof, the Guardian roughly turning him over, hands mischievously messing his auburn hair. Their hands grabbed each other's arms, their legs interlocked, thin white strands and earthy dark locks interwoven, their laughters fluttering playfully around each other like young quetzals just out of their nest. Hiccup struggled with both knees and elbows, but soon gave up against Jack's surprising strength that pinned him underneath. He squinted at the blinding ray of sunlight falling through the leaves onto his eyes, making Jack's divine silky hair shine like a pale rainbow halo. The aviator ducked his head slightly, ensuring that the light was briefly reflected by the glass roof into Jack's azure eyes. Briefly blinded, the Drifter chief let go of Hiccup's arms and sat up atop his thighs, both of them still chuckling heartily.

"I, Jack Frost, the Feathered Snake, Leader of the Guardians, have defeated you. Bow before my greatness," teased Jack, still giggling.

Hiccup heaved himself on one elbow, a hand above his dark brows to cover his emerald eyes from the sunlight.

"That reminds me," he answered with a smile, "I have a present for you, O Quetzalcoatl, Greatest of the Great."

Jack looked down at him, head slightly tilted, in genuine amusement.

"If you will let me go," precipitately added Hiccup as his legs slowly went numb under the barefoot man's weight.

The Guardian accepted, allowing the inventor to stand up and grab his satchel laying on Toothless's left wing, As icy blue eyes stared at him with intensity and curiosity, her fumbled inside his mess to produce an ear of golden corn.

"Thank you… wait, your family has as much gold and constellite as you can possibly wish for, and all you give me is _corn_?"

"I was thinking about what you told me on your stone quarry," Hiccup explained, sounding rather solemn. "There are enough kernels in there to grow a decent-sized field where you live. The corn is used to the habitat in this region, and can live on the rather humid and mineral-rich soil of the windless quarry. It could feed your people on top of the hunting and gathering you do, and the roots will stabilise the soil against erosion as well as filter any toxic impurities from the water."

Jack considered the informed arguments for an instant, before decisively snatching the maize away from the inventor's hand and playfully punching him in the shoulder with it.

" _That_ 's for teaching me a good lesson," he groaned, echoing Hiccup's words.

"And _this_ is for teaching me a _good_ lesson," Jack finished in a whisper into the young pilot's ear.

Before he had time to react, Hiccup felt the Drifter's fresh lips onto his. Completely caught off guard, he reclined into Jack's solid arms, gently wrapped against his shoulders. He felt his eyelids slide close and his own mouth responding the white-haired teenager's. Tingles of pure excitement ran down his spine, as his heart pounded deafeningly within his chest, a delightful dizziness running through all of his nerves and veins.

"Breathe," Jack reminded him with a wink, his silver eyelashes brushing over Hiccup's freckled cheek, as light as a feather.

And he kissed him again. It was surprisingly simple, neither good nor bad, neither right nor wrong, just fun and _natural_ , as if it were meant to happen. The inventor's tongue curiously moved against the other man's, exploring the surface of his palate, running over his perfectly aligned teeth on his perfectly shaped jaw. His fingers locked into the mane of silver locks, as dazzlingly fresh and thin as the snowflakes over the Old World, ran against the arch of the nape of his neck, statuesque and juvenile, caressed his shoulders, frail but strong, youthful but burdened, playful but protective. His fingers firmly rested there, anchored to the sole envelope of the reality he believed in, a reality so intense that in the instant it eclipsed everything else. Around them, the scents, sounds and sights of the primitive rainforest luxuriously vanished into invisibility, as the slightest of winds slowly pushed them through the canopy.

The wind took them home, gently like an old friend, to their new home.

The wind guided them, bravely like a warrior, along fate's paths living within them.

The wind flew along with them, faithful like a tame dragon, trusting and trusted.

The wind parted the leaves, allowing the sun's mirthful teardrops to fall upon them in their raw, beautiful energy.

And the wind opened the doors that were closed, as powerful and strange as love itself, shutting them out far away from the mighty, intricate social clockwork engines that had shaped their past and hurling them into a future of possibilities.

* * *

 **And thus ends the first part of this fic,** ** _Misfits_** **(or something, I suck at titles). Thank you for everyone who's been reading, following and reviewing thus far!**

 **Fun fact: The mango, before I forget, is a nod to the wonderful Cassandra Clare, author of The Mortal Instruments. The chapter title references a [legend]: Quetzalcoatl and Tlaloc played a ball game against each other, where a ball kicked with knees and elbows through elevated hoops (the most likely inspiration for quidditch) symbolises the travel of the sun through the sky. Upon Quetzalcoatl's victory over Tlaloc, the latter offered him a prize befitting the greatest of gods: corn. As Quetzalcoatl would have preferred jade and feathers, Tlatloc explains that corn is more precious in its ability to feed people. [/legend] Regarding Hiccup's considerations about maize, they are kind of true; I checked the Wikipedia maize page ;) even though it might not be the ideal plant for the filtering/erosion-preventing part due to relatively shallow roots… I chose it since it is the primary base of the Aztec diet (there might be more on this later on).**

 **Author's mistake of the day: Not in the story itself, but it the A/N I mentioned film Hiccup being right-handed. This is true** ** _only_** **for sword-handling. He writes and draws with the** ** _left_** **hand (when nobody's around at least – I'm pretty sure he kicks his pen up and down the desk with the right hand). I googled it and found the insightful analysis that even though he is left-handed, he does things with the right hand to look more viking-like and socially acceptable, like handling weapons (or trying to) etc. You can see him holding his knife to kill the Night Fury with his right hand, failing to and then cutting the ropes with his left hand… might be a construct from too imaginative people on the Internet, but still pretty interesting. Various sources, look up "Hiccup handedness" to see what I'm talking about.**

 **Announcement: Phew. Please R &R, F&F, constructively comment. I have ever so slightly less clear plans for what is going to happen next, even though I know how the story is going to end and who lives through it (mostly). I need to figure out how everyone interacts with others when they are all together, and also where the different plots go in more detail. I will try to update regularly, until then I would be extremely grateful for any feedback on the first part. Please suggest corrections for mistakes and blatant omissions also, I would quite like to fix anything that went wrong in the existing chapters. Cover art, character designs etc. also welcome. I might also kick-start one of the too many writing ideas I have in my head, so watch this space! Until then, please review, lots of love xxx**


	17. Wyvern's End

**Here starts the second part:** ** _League of Outcasts_** **… or something. As always, thanks for everything. Have an automaton hug.**

Noon30ish: thankee! I didn't know people read the endless drabbles in my A/N's (they're there for future reference mostly). I think you're right; Hiccup is ambidextrous and born left-handed. It seems unusual that someone in that case would consistently write with the left hand, as they are, as you said, usually encouraged by society to write right-handed. But then, maybe the fencing aspect is more important for the Vikings, which is why Hiccup was forced to swordfight with his right hand… most likely I'm just overcomplicating it. Ah, I'm jealous ;) I can't at all write with my left hand (I can do most other things equally well with both hands though, courtesy of high-level training as a musician). Aw, glad you enjoyed the fluffy stuff. I got a little bit too carried away with writing that kiss…

faisyah865: as usual, thanks loads. "Did Anna and Hans to [sic] the deed?" It is heavily implied in the limit of the story rating and how many words I am willing to throw away writing about it. As a writer I am not into detailed adult themes. I mention them because they exist in real life between real people and somewhat affect the plot. I find the lengthy fanservice-type descriptive scenes rather boring to read myself. As to fluff fanservice, as you all know it is up there as a part of my writing sins. Argh, fluff, grrrrr.

 **Enough chatting, getting on with…**

 **Chapter 17: Wyvern's End or the importance of being Ernest.**

 **CW: implicit racism, mild violence**

The wyvern looked far from its best. Beneath the garish dark green and bright red paints, the rust that covered its iron scales was visible. Its clockwork legs dangled lifelessly in the faint evening breeze. Its once proud horns and floating whiskers were covered in a thick layer of soot from the chimney above. Its eternally open mouth, doubling as gutter for the slanted roof, oozed water, sputtered electric sparks and coughed wafts of fetid steam. Each of the painstaking twists of its long, narrow mechanical body rang with a creepy squeak of deformed metal against deformed metal. The constellite light in one of its googly eyes had died away, leaving it with an oddly asymmetrical indigo gaze that weakly lit the narrow blind alley below. The painted runes of Northern Porcelanie on the wooden sign hanging off its legs were long gone, washed away by the years and the salty oceanic winds, while the pitiful robot dragon stayed. To all, the cul-de-sac remained known by the infamous name of Wyvern's End.

A silhouette caped in black was hardly an unusual sight in the insalubrious district of Providence. The Cornucopian Crown's initiative had been to build a sector in the insular town for the migrants brought from Western Extremesia to work in the small port. After a couple of decades, the Spaniards bought off the small island for a handful of millions from the Queen of Cornucopia, and the construction work on the ghetto was abandoned to favour the assimilation of the Western Extremesians into the motley colonist population. The district had quickly turned into one of the harbour's most ill-famed slums, where contraband and criminality were the only consuls. Beneath the mess of slanted gutters, entangled cables of all thicknesses and light embroidered laundry drying in the crepuscule on the busy balloon and zeppelin backdrop, amidst the smoke drifting at all levels from holes in the ground to chimneys on uneven rooftops, the smell of the day's leftover fish, flour, rice, fresh paint, tasty stew and jasmine incense, the cheers of children in ragtag embroidered linen in bright tones of gold and purple, the ebb and flow of steam vehicles of two, three, four or six wooden or metal wheels, the cloaked figure navigated its way throughout the riffraff crowd.

Under that hood were too many strands of white through the curly ink-black mane, according to the stranger herself, a certain woman who went by the name of Mother Gothel. Holding tight to her cloak as she stepped over a sewer that happened to be full of baby pink paint from the nearby textile factory, she made her way into Wyvern's End. She eyed at the golden wristwatch carefully concealed under the lace frills of her dark scarlet dress. She was hardly early at all. She blamed the jetlag, that bloody jetlag. She wiped her sweaty palms against the dark fabric of her cape. Her heavy velvet dress and its tight corset were more adapted to the Cornucopian weather than the colonial one. Upon receiving news of the recent chaos, she had been forced to fly by herself to the New Continent to fix things. At least, those stupid Stabbingtons were alive. They had been seen trying to leave for Centralesia unnoticed through Providence. She had been in touch with them through a selected list of intermediaries. She had paid them to bring Rapunzel and Eugene safely to Jerome Corona in Plant Alpha, to give both of them a lesson of prudence. However, their zeppelin appeared to have crashed, and no trace was left of the heiress and her pretentious little suitor.

No trace was left until that morning, that was. An unknown source had reported the sighting of Miss Corona in the mainland, north of Providence. The note, inconspicuously introduced into the cotton handkerchief she had purchased in the port, suggested a meeting in Wyvern's End at sunset. Mother Gothel was well aware she was at her indicator's mercy. Alone in a foreign land, with nothing but the garb on her back and a purse at her belt, she was rather helpless… or so she would hope they _believed_ she was.

"Good day, M'dam," called a voice in a thick Porcelanian accent.

She turned around to see a man of lean stature, bent over a soot-covered walking stick, his long and smooth black and gray beard dangling at each of his steps. Unkempt dark hair sprinkled with maddened silver streaks sprouted from his scalp, covering most of his face. His thin shape was concealed by a stained patchwork of loose cotton in pale tones of rose, blue and white, embroidered with vegetal and meteorological motifs. All she could see of him was, circled by cobweb-like wrinkles encrusted in dirt, a pair of intelligent green eyes staring right at her.

"Sir," she spoke simply. "I believe we have more _guests_."

And releasing a tiny spring-loaded blade from the delicate mechanism of her wristwatch, she slashed her own purse open, spilling a mass of golden coins onto the uneven stony ground and the dye-filled sewers. In the cacophony of Wyvern's End, such noise was hardly an event. Actually, it only attracted the attention of four ears that had been waiting for that very kind of sound. Four ears that reckoned themselves – or rather whatever was _between_ the ears reckoned – as extremely well-trained at their jobs as mercenaries. So well-trained, in fact, that they had picked up that very morning the rumour that Mr. Fitzherbert was in Providence and meeting some matchmaker in Wyvern's End at sunset to arrange his wedding with Miss Corona before flying back to Cornucopia. They had even recognised his face on pamphlets raising a price for his head in the dirty alleyways of the Porcelanian district, despite the fact that his nose had been pictured comically deformed. Of course, they were far from knowing that the pinned pictures, hastily cut off the pages of some Wellis Pamphlet of Camford, and the discreetly spread gossip on Eugene's presence had been the doing of one person, no other than that cunning Mother Gothel. All that mattered for the rather deficient heads between those ears was that their sworn enemy, that common thief that believed himself a gentleman, that smoldering scum called Flynn Rider who had dared escaped them was there, for them to catch. No one knew better than them that Rider was a master at pickpocketing and pretense, such that they immediately intervened at the sound of scattered coins and offended screams.

The Stabbington brothers, to whom the four ears belonged, appeared around the corner and immediately spotted the bearded man before the robbed woman. Spotted with their three eyes, that was, for they had four ears and three eyes between both of them since Rapunzel had burned one of their irises with her Frying Pan of Doom. That left Not-Ernest with a black eyepatch, breaking the perfect symmetry between the twins, disfiguring the powerfully intricate machinery of the world and suddenly giving a mass to the universe. Fortunately, the Stabbingtons were too simple to worry about such existential concerns. Within seconds, they seized the old man by both arms and pinned him against the wet, greasy wall. They might not have been the most competent or intelligent henchmen, but the Gothel had to admit that their hatred for Mr. Fitzherbert made things much easier for her. Whatever the mysterious man looked like, she knew they would have attacked by professional reflex. Mercenaries were mercenaries; they did anything for a handful of coins and for grudges old and new.

"Let me go, I haven't –" begged the Porcelanian man.

"Think you can hide from us, _Rider_?" Ernie snapped in response, roughly yanking at his beard.

" _Don't_ ," intervened the matron before they had time to unmask him and realise he wasn't Eugene… or was he? "If other people recognise him and get him, the price of his head might escape us."

"What do you suggest we do?" asked the one-eyed Stabbington, as docile as a lamb.

So that there she was, with two mercenaries at her beg and call, holding her indicator in submission. She wasn't so helpless after all.

"There are a few questions I would guess both you and I want the answer to, and we know he has the answers," she said. "First, is Rapunzel Corona alive?"

"M'dam, she is, I saw her with my own eyes."

"Where is she?"

"In safety, in a cotton plant near Bartolomé. The Andersens took her under their wing. She is well-dressed and well-treated."

The Andersens of the Company of the Southern Isles? The rivals of Corona & Sons?

"How do you know that?"

"I work on the railroad that connects their plantation to the Weselton estate on the coast," he gasped, his emerald eyes full of fear. "I direct operations at the mainland end. I see Mr. Andersen nearly every day myself."

"What do they plan to do with her?"

"How should I know? Mr. Andersen doesn't talk about fair maidens with me…"

The Gothel's dark eyes gleamed menacingly. She held his life within her fine fingers. With a single glance, she ordered Not-Ernie to expand one of the many blades of his gauntlets, in a lethally precise game of cogs and pistons, and brandish it right beneath the man's pale throat.

"So, what do you have to give me? What use should I make of you?" she whispered, each syllable sounding like another knife resting upon his skin.

"M'dam, have mercy, I haven't…" he gasped in a weak breath.

"Yes, you have," she murmured in an even lower tone, as calm as the late summer air before the storm.

"I do, I have… I have lots of money!" he yelped, tossing an enormous ruby-studded ring onto the floor from his hand under his sleeve.

Both siblings stared dubitatively. That man they were threatening, whoever he was, was infinitely rich. Meanwhile, the woman had nothing more but the coins scattered across the floor. But then, they could pick up the trinket and just run away. Even though _one_ ring was slightly small for _two_ brothers.

They held grudges new and old, but they would do anything for a handful of golden coins. Mercenaries were mercenaries.

"And that's nothing, there's a lot more on my zeppelin at the quay! Put that blade away and I'll take you there."

The three eyes consulted each other. In an instant, the brothers let go of the frail man who heavily fell into the dirt. As he painfully helped himself up with his walking stick, the Stabbingtons positioned themselves behind him on either side, as if to protect him. Heavens be damned, that Porcelanian-sounding man had outsmarted her and deprived her of her henchmen. She would have to do with it. She would have to do with _him_. For there was no good, no evil, and if she chose to they could well be on the same _side_. She _liked_ the idea.

"So, Mister Lots-Of-Money, what are your plans?"

"Peace," he spat. "In times of peace people ride ironhorses, and my job is useful. In times of war, they melt the steel to make weapons, so I've got no work and no money."

"The Coronas and DunBrochs attacked the Company of the Southern Isles and all businesses that depend on them. The gears of allegiances and alliances are turning, and the Colonies are at war. How do you suggest bringing back peace?"

"Use Miss Corona as a bargaining token. I can convince the Andersens to reveal she's alive for her father, and propose a cease-fire in exchange for her freedom."

"You want her to be a hostage, for real this time," she understood.

"No violence will be used on her. One of my… many sources, which I bought with the ludicrous amounts of money I have, reported that you were close to Mr. Jerome Corona himself. He will trust you if you persuade him to accept the peace."

"Is that all?"

"Aye, M'dam."

It sounded so simple it could actually _work_. She would have her Rapunzel back and her father's trust back for bringing his daughter home and killing the conflict in the womb. Maybe she would obtain even more from Mr. Corona, or so she hoped. And that mysterious railroad worker attempting to bargain with her would get his business to flourish. She knew she could hardly trust him. She knew her was hiding something behind that silvery beard and inside those clever eyes. However, there was no right, no wrong, just many tones of compromise.

"If you need me, I have my conditions. First, you will give me a proof that Rapunzel is alive and with you. I want a letter from her own hand signed by the date of tomorrow, starting with the words 'dearest mother', I can recognise her handwriting. Second, you will give me a zeppelin to fly to Plant Alpha and make sure we are allowed in. Seeing that all the DunBroch mercenaries are away wreaking havoc at the Weselton Exposition, that shouldn't be hard. Third, those two Stabbingtons are mine. You will pay them to come with me as bodyguards, and no one else will be with us. I don't want to be publically associated with any of your men. Am I clear?"

"M'dam, that's fine, but right now these come with me," he said, gesturing at the sibling mercenaries. "A room has been booked for you at the inn above the carpet shop, south of the docks. They'll come tomorrow at dawn collect you with their own zeppelin and unaccompanied. Good night, m'dam."

Before she had time to respond, he vanished into the labyrinth of sinister streets, both Stabbingtons following in his steps. She hardly knew the area at all well enough to be able to follow them. Slowly, she bent down to collect her coins, one by one, in the ashes and the paint. Oh, that taste of bittersweet victory. On the one hand, Rapunzel was alive; she knew her new associates would not be able to lie to her on that since she had requested proof. She would bring her back with the peace. All she had to do was speak to a man who already yearned for her presence and the sound of her voice. On the other hand, she was working with an individual whose motives were more concealed than she would have liked, with a powerful organisation, a pitiless engine grinding its cogs and gears in darkness, ready to shred her to bits once it was done with her. And there was little she could do about it. They already had Rapunzel, _her_ Rapunzel.

Her _own_ little Rapunzel.

Her own blonde little girl with clumsy feet, artist's hands and a way with constellite. After all those years looking after her in exchange for the protection of her father, she had to admit she had gotten to _care_ about her. Oh, all those who dwelled around Rapunzel fell victim to that same curse. Flynn, Ella, her parents and even herself, the good old Gothel. Like automatons in a carrousel, they rotated until their heads spun and their little clockwork parts move up and down obliviously. They danced around her in the golden light until all they could see was her, Rapunzel everywhere, Rapunzel endlessly. There she was, and there they were all meant to be. The heiress was so… _innocent_. Not that she was pure in body or mind, the Gothel knew her well enough to recognise the selfish destructiveness that clouded her large green eyes like summer storms. But Rapunzel had a lifetime before her, a future clear from stains and shadows, and the destiny inside her being was still a blank page. She had so much _potential_ , that little Punz, and that was what attracted all of them towards her like electrons in constellite excited by sunlight. She was a universe of possibilities of her own, and Mother Gothel could not wait to seize it and sculpt it after her own _image_.

Oh, and even the Crown of Cornucopia, the most powerful empire in the known world, called for the heiress of Crownsworth. A letter from a certain viceroy had reached the Camford manor a day earlier. Oh well, the Gothel was too busy to deal with that, but at least she had _some_ idea.

Meanwhile, the Stabbington twins followed the Porcelanian man through the streets of Providence. The port was a messy patchwork of districts, colourful slums separated from high-walled bourgeois residences by makeshift terra cotta barriers covered in different tones of ochre tiles, as well-aligned as kernels in an ear of corn. The temple to the Man on the Moon, standing proud with its pale lunar domes and its fractal spires backlit by the crepuscule, was buzzing with whispers from the evening masses and markets. Modestly the adepts of the Man in the Sky made their way in between the black and white columns to reach that one ornate alcove dedicated to their god, forever ignorant of whether both celestial figures had ever been distinct. Regardless of who they worshipped, the falling sunlight and the rising starlight descended over all, enveloping the harbour in a mysterious haze of purple.

Eventually, they reached the zeppelin port that lay opposite the docks. Gangly towers of wood and steel sprouted from the jetties into the sky, carrying busy platforms covered in travellers and tradesmen, rotund hot air balloons and dirigibles of all sizes and sigils anchored onto them, slowly oscillating with the winds and the nocturnal tides. Gutters spat silver steam, constellite warily glittered, helices quietly spun and gears repetitively scurried the one against the other. Amongst the late evening agitation was a small, battered zeppelin with a half-faded crest on its flank. Following their guide, the twins jumped aboard a wicker lift cabin, elevated by emancipated slaves through a solid system of pulleys. As soon as they reached the level of the man's airship, a small dark-skinned servant ran to greet them on the deck, garbed in loose sepia linen and a white cap. The bearded old man simply gestured with his cane, causing him to run inside and come back with a large purse full of gold for each of the siblings.

"I almost forgot," said the Porcelanian with a tone almost too casual for a tradesman of his rank, before handing out the payment.

And before anyone had time to react, he knocked one of the heavy money bags onto Ernest's foot. With a yelp, the mercenary leaned onto the lift's door to catch his balance. The bearded man swiveled it open, using his walking stick as a lever. The Stabbington fell through into the port's shallow waters with another scream. His brother lunged at him, but he was too slow against the old man's fluid attacks and solid defense. An iron fist met his chest. A slipper-wearing foot hit his knee. A palm closed onto his wrist with a sickening crunch. He could not even catch his adversary. Releasing him, the Porcelanian man stepped aside to let him tumble into the lift, drew a blade concealed somewhere on his outfit to slice off the cabin's rope tie and let him tumble to join his twin into the sea. He caught the first purse with the tip of his slipper just before it was about to fall.

"Mr. Stabbington, Mr. Stabbington, a new zeppelin exactly identical to your old one will get you here tomorrow. Have a restful night!" he called from above with a mockingly courteous gesture of his cane.

The mercenaries, desperately clinging to the floating wicker basket, watched as he disappeared, engulfed by his helium-filled vessel. Promptly dismissing his lackey, he gave a heavy sigh. At that point, he sarcastically reflected that what he was about to do appeared as a stereotypical villainous action, but the heat was just unbearable in the tropical weather. Relief filled his sweaty pores as he discarded his heavy wig.

 **Fun fact: [in-universe history] Providence was the first island discovered by the Queen of Cornucopia's corsairs. The archipelago, originally thought to be the easternmost end of the Continent of Extremesia, was called the Southern Isles of Eastern Extremesia (where Porcelanie and Rosalba are both part of Western Extremesia). Even though this land was later revealed to be part of a new continent, the names remained, such as that of the Company of the Southern Isles. [/in-universe history] That creepy squeak is just crepe-y (where crepe is the long-term deformation that makes iron gutters sag, amongst other things). Of course, you can have a guess on who that guy wearing a wig is… wait, do I know that? (I think I do... wait...) Tell me in the reviews!**

 **Announcement: I am currently interning, which means three things. One, I have more time to write than previously, but I'm not home that often and also try to spend time with actual real life people (yes, for real), so expect one or two chapters a week. I have most of this fic plotted out now. Mostly. Two, I live somewhere where I have access to that amazing piece of technology called a scanner, so brace yourselves for sketches of characters in costumes! That is, if I get around to doing the scanning, the editing and the colouring… right. They may well be linked to on my profile, I'll see about that. Three, I want to finish this story. To be honest, I never finished off any serious writing project I'm doing on my own, and I really do want to write this till the end. I plan to get it done around September-ish, which means that most my other fics will likely be on hold until then… unless my inspiration betrays me. Okay, please R &R, F&F, constructively comment, stay awesome xxx **


	18. Things We Don't Understand

**So, I haven't updated in what seems as ages. Thanks for everything.**

faisyah865: Awww, thanks! As usual, thanks for your encouraging comments. I definitely believe Gothel has _some_ appreciation for Punz at least, which makes her such an interesting antagonist, the same way Punz is a surprisingly layered protagonist. Don't you think the identity of the wig guy is a bit _too_ obvious?

 **Chapter 18, where Pascal and Olaf have some fun times, Rapunzel's constellite-related abilities are elucidated, but not really, Frostcup fluff occurs and Joan isn't the one hanging there. Even though this chapter is super long, it is sequential.**

 **CW: discussion of homophobia, class-based discrimination**

* * *

"You _caught_ it?!"

Blissfully unaware of his owner's utter surprise, Olaf was impossibly bemused by Pascal. On the ebony table tastefully sculpted in flowing flowery shapes and delicately inlaid with pastel-toned stained glass, the albino pet and the automaton reptile ran in a tight oval chasing each other's tails, until the former realised that the latter's tail was actually detachable, appended to the rest of its clockwork body by a pair of magnets. The platypus had never seen such a disturbingly fun phenomenon in its whole life.

But the younger Baroness of Arendelle was paying attention neither to the animal of flesh nor that of metal. The warm light poured in from all around, projecting onto the room and its occupants shadows of the right angles of the bay window and the fluttering translucent curtains. A gentle wind played with the light fabrics, creating ripples and wavelets on a cabinet in white. In the perpetual subtle motion, it was hard to tell where stopped the flowing milky-coloured curtains, the refined ivory colonial gowns of the ladies and their assorted fans; and where started the thick white linen that covered the custom couches and armchairs or even the fluffy whipped cream that twirled atop the homemade scones on a silver tray. The esteemed guests of Anna's very first Salon sat around the same table for the first time for ever. And they were truly a league of extraordinary people, she attempted to convince herself.

By her side was Miss Rapunzel Corona, the immensely wealthy heiress of her father's rising commercial empire and namesake of a golden flower. By her side was Mr. Fitzherbert, infamous tradesman of Corona & Sons and recently Rapunzel's fiancé. Then sat Astrid Hofferson, a formidable warrior and one of the most famous faces of Eastern Extremesia. Next to Merida DunBroch, daughter of the most prominent mercenary clan on the continent who had distinguished herself with her combat skills at the Exposition. Then was the heir of Berk Steel, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, a peerless inventor, civilian pilot and gentleman. And the rarest specimen came next: Jack Frost, silver-haired teenager, chief and Feathered Snake of the Guardian tribe. He had brought two fellow Drifters with him, Tooth, the colourful clockwork-winged healer, and Sandy, her multitalented yellow-haired mate. Of course, completing the circle was Anna's own sister, the beautiful, accomplished and fervently courted Baroness Elsa of Arendelle…

 _Wait, what_? Anna knew only too well what her realistic sibling was seeing before her. Not a salon of unusual talents, but a motley handful of outcasts. An antisocial aristocrat from a broke family. A pair of barefoot savages, one of which spoke too much – about teeth, too – and the other spoke not a word. A young outlaw leader from the jungle and an eccentric one-legged Miseralian who could not take their eyes off each other. A pair of dishevelled soldiers, the axe-crazy one and the bow-crazy one. A robber dressed as a colonial dandy, holding the valid hand of a long-haired woman who seemed to think she had caught a constellite dart _with her own bare hand_.

"You caught it," repeated Anna more calmly. "How?"

"With my hand, milady," responded Rapunzel, softly waving her cleanly bandaged palm.

"I know that… how did you manage to stop it _and_ throw it back though? _How_?"

"I don't know, milady!"

Even though she may have been a tad overly excited by the initial prospect, Anna felt a half-conscious tinge of wariness. They had been sitting there for an hour, just after Toothless had safely landed on the mansion's roof and the last guests had received a well-deserved shower and lunch. During that hour, Anna had gathered that Merida and Astrid were thought to be stuck at the Exposition but had escaped before the raid, that the three Guardians were the sole free survivors of their Tribe, unbeknownst to all, and that Flynn and Rapunzel were alive while they were believed by everyone as dead, which was what had started the conflict in the first place. That was a lot to get used to, let alone to deal with. Even without Rapunzel apparently ignoring how her hand had managed to _defy the laws of nature_ in such a fashion.

"Constellite has peculiar properties," Eugene intervened to patiently explain. "I have been involved in its trade before, I know a thing or two. It could have absorbed some of the power of the impact with Punz's hand. How that would be energetically favourable, though, I ignore. All I know is that she's always been… skilful with manipulating constellite. She used to play around with raw crystals without danger when she was just a child."

"That's interesting," muttered Hiccup. "Anything more you remember from when you were younger? Or from that incident on the deck?"

"No," said Punz.

"Yes," said Eugene simultaneously.

The pilot shot them a dark glance.

"Her… I know that sounds weird and useless, but… her hair started to shine gold."

Anna tilted her head in conceited confusion, nervously playing with a strand of strawberry blonde hair. Things were getting stranger and stranger. Oh, the outcasts of her salon were truly extraordinary.

"Gold?" she echoed. "Isn't that the signature property of the Rapunzel flower, genetically engineered by Corona & Sons? I heard this from my lovely fiancé…"

Speaking of the devil, Hans stepped into the cabinet with a graceful curtsy, a flagon of a violet autumn vintage of South-western Hexagonia in one hand and a tray of empty crystal cups on the other. Freshly back from a commercial meeting, he had resolved to bring refreshments since Kai was supposedly busy manning the mansion's gate. In that instant, Anna ignored what was more pleasant between the feverish touch of his gloved fingers on her cheek and the chill contact of the carefully selected beverage against her lips.

"Those golden flowers we have in the underground labyrinth? Father and Mother had whole patches of those grown all over our estate, but only a little number glowed, so the rest got unrooted and the fluorescent ones were grafted and planted in the cave."

Anna almost coughed out the bitter wine as she felt Elsa stiffen by her side at Rapunzel's comment.

"An enhancer trap screen," the blonde aristocrat exhaled quietly.

Her pale blue eyes met her sibling's turquoise glare. For seconds, Anna did not understand.

"An enhancer trap screen of a _very unusual form_ ," she suddenly realised.

She knew her sister too well not to figure out what she implied, even though it was not enhancers she was in fact mentioning, but a similar procedure on a much larger and more ambitious scale. She had overseen it in one of Elsa's newest botany tomes. Her point of view on the matter in principle could well differ from her opinion on the case in actual real life…

"Can someone explain?" enquired Tooth.

Hiccup gave a slight grunt of approval. Anna looked at him, at Tooth, and then back at Rapunzel, whose green eyes were wide with curiosity.

"It's the constellite projectile," lied Elsa dryly. "It's got that kind of optical properties."

Anna looked at her sister in dismay. How could she conceal the truth from the young heiress? Did she truly believe she was not ready? Would she rather let her live in fear than in understanding? She saw Jack and Hiccup exchanging a puzzled look, hands negligently rested atop each other. Elsa avoided their eyes, blankly looking at Merida by their side. The redhead pecked at her scone without appetite, vaguely looking towards Astrid, who in turn had a suspicious eye on both the Arendelle siblings. Anna hardly liked the awkwardness building up in her newborn salon. Her hand intuitively found the round stability of Hans's knee for comfort. Through the fine fabric of his white silk trousers, her warm fingers squeezed in a silent plea for support.

"Has any of you seen my cane? I thought I left it in the hallway this morning," he asked with abrupt casualty.

All of them half-heartedly looked around, including Gerda who had just arrived carrying baskets of fresh tropical fruit.

"I guess Kai took it to give it a good wipe," answered Anna, "excuse his perfectionism. He is one of the most faithful servants the Arendelle family has ever had."

"Should I ask him, Mr. Andersen?" said Gerda with a respectful bow. "He is just outside the door."

"Gerda, that is unnecessary. I do not need a walking stick right now, since I have no intent of taking a single step away from my most wonderful future bride, now that she sits beside me. I will tell him on my way out."

Elsa and Astrid simultaneously took a sip of wine, shortly imitated by Merida.

"Gerda, if you please, also show these ladies and gentlemen their rooms. For now, all of you are our guests."

In all honesty, Anna was somewhat relieved as the cabinet was progressively emptied. Her ivory fan rested in equilibrium on her knees. She was too indolent to stand up. The faint buzzing of the evening insects outside caressed her eardrums. The humid heat flushed her freckled cheeks and the bright twilight made her turquoise eyes water. That autumn wine did not agree with her.

* * *

Hiccup could not sleep. Despite the fact that the bed was the most comfortable one he had been on for a while. The large mattress was soft but firm, the sheets fresh and fine and the pillows plentiful. Even the oil canvases of assorted seaside landscapes against the walls were tastefully arranged. Through the light curtains filtered the pale blue moonlight. The wind whispered playfully in the interstice between the closed windows.

And yet, Hiccup was rocking back and forth, restlessly. His body needed sleep. His mind needed sleep. He had spent so many hours off the ground recently that he felt as though the bed was still floating and oscillating, carried by balloons, beneath him. The thin white sheet was plastered against his sweaty skin. Despite the heat, he refused to lay his bare body exposed, wearing nothing but his undergarments. As if someone would see him, he thought sarcastically. Tiredness made him paranoid.

He thought of Rapunzel. Even though he liked to consider himself well-read and technically minded, he had to admit he hardly had a clue as to the root of her surprising abilities. If his knowledge encompassed metallurgy and aerodynamics, both Anna and Elsa seemed to have some idea of the physiology and botany involved in the question. He had to ask one of them on the morrow. He wanted to know, and he hated himself for it. Why did he always have to be too curious for his own good? Knowing his allies and enemies were the only way to secure a victory, he thought… a _victory_? A contest? A war? What was he trying to _prove_?

Ah, he and the children of the Berk clan. Always trying to strike faster, hit stronger, fly higher. Always yearning for recognition and respect from the stern Miseralian community. As the son of Stoick the Vast, Hiccup was the trainer of the Berk Academy by tradition. The Academy. A fine name for a bunch of lunatic, boisterous, cowardly or aggressive teenagers. Of which he, of course, was part, without knowing very well which of those he was. Not that it mattered much, for just as everyone else, he had spent a lifetime trying to prove his worth to Stoick. As a chief, the latter knew very well how to utilise and publicise his son's skills. But as a father…

Then there was Jack. Surely, if he actually cared, the owner of Berk Steel would have realised Hiccup's complete disinterest in Astrid and the other women of his age, and hence inferred his preferences. Clearly, Stoick hardly _cared_. He would simply give a shrug and go back to inspecting the newly made stainless steel maces. What worried the inventor more was the reaction of the rest of his clan. The Miseralians did not particularly mind gender roles or even a bit of change from times to times. However, they were Centralesian _colonists_. Moulded in a world of ballrooms and betrothals, they forgot who they were to merge into a crowd that lived by the laws of the Man in the Sky. They loved what was fashionable and loathed what was seen as sinful. Oh, he wished he had known his mother…

Hiccup turned around on his pillows. He had heard something. He glanced at the window, but nothing blocked the moonbeam between the curtains. Sighing, he shifted back to his other side, leaning onto his valid leg. The lavish mansion _must_ be somehow secured. There was no way an intrusion could occur by night. No way could the windows be unlocked from the outside. No way was a deft, svelte hand expertly inserting a crooked metal cable between the glass panels to turn the window handle. No way could the shadows possibly shift as window noiselessly swivelled…

The aviator sprang up, grabbing his metal leg from under the pillows. By reflex, he swung it at the dark silhouette before him. Silhouette that avoided the blow with disconcerting ease, with a clear giggle immediately recognisable amongst all.

"Jack!" Hiccup spoke, hardly trying to hide his relief. "I thought it was… why are you here?"

"Couldn't sleep. I was drawing on the dirt on your window earlier, I hoped you'd notice."

"Sorry, I didn't _believe_ that someone could be hanging _out my window_ by _night_ …"

Suddenly, the young pilot realised he stood nearly naked before the Drifter. He hoped the darkness concealed his furiously blushing cheeks, as the icy blue eyes travelled across his skin with playful curiosity. As they silently grinned at the linen of his underwear, contemplated the shape of his belly button, slid up the lean steadfastness of his torso, caressed the near-inexistent stubble on his juvenile chin, followed the arch of his solemn nose to finally meet his confused emerald glare. All that in a fraction of a second. All that in a flash, brief and bright against a lifetime of invisible darkness. They had so much _time_ before them…

"Jack, I can't sleep either."

The Guardian hardly had time to read the flicker of desire in Hiccup's irises before feeling the warmth of his lips against his. Before he could lay his hands on the shapely slender shoulders, the inventor's hands seized his. Hot, clammy fingers against chill, lithe palms. Fine fingertips as light as tropical breezes against firm calluses from piloting and metalwork. Jack was a snowflake in a furnace. And within seconds the last remnants of self-control melted away.

He hardly noticed the metallic clang as Hiccup dropped his prosthetic leg onto the floor. Or the warning gasp uttered by the older man. He did realise, however, when the aviator stumbled on his one good foot, sending both of them tumbling onto the mattress, breathless and lightheaded amongst the white bedsheets.

"You seem like you don't _want_ to sleep," murmured the silver-haired teenager with a tender smirk, looking down on a pair of wide open forest green eyes. "Well, be assured I won't let you. _Trust me_."

An avalanche of sensations rushed through Hiccup's mind as the whispers poured into his ear. He felt the icy lips play with his earlobe, deliciously running down the side of his chin, devouring his neck…

"Hey, that _tickles_!" he grunted.

As the Guardian criminally continued, he had no other choice but to retort, running all ten fingers against the pale stomach. And so the war was inevitable. A storm of mischievous fingertips and bemused toes – with an unfair advantage from one side on that front – of feathery pillows and fluttering sheets, of malicious cackle and exploding laughter broke loose. As he desperately tried to pull the Drifter's loose shirt off, Hiccup was gradually worried there was _something_ he meant to do. Not that the instant was in any way short of delicious. Not that guilt was strong enough to overcome pleasure. Then what _was_ it? By Odin's eye, why was he so _distracted_ …?

"Jack," he said, suddenly calm sitting atop the other man's giggling belly.

"Huh?"

"Why can't you sleep?"

"Because you're _sitting on me_?"

Jack gave the most fake innocent grin, setting Hiccup's heart pounding in his chest.

"No, no, before you came."

"Because…"

The Guardian looked away, unable to bear the emerald glare for an instant. Hiccup climbed off him to lay by his side over the vast mattress. The warmth of his shoulder through Jack's pyjamas somewhat comforted him.

"Because I'm afraid," he confessed.

"Of what?"

Jack gave a sigh, winter clouds invading his mirthful eyes.

"Of nothing… Of _everything_. I shouldn't be here in a gorgeous colonial manor. I should be out there with my people. What will happen to them? What will happen to _us_? Drago has gathered the Western and Northern Huacans, and soon the Itzans will be by his side too. All the tribes of the Continents will join his ranks against the colonist force. When the conflict at the Exposition is settled, your father will send his troops against them, and with all the tribes he enslaved Drago will think himself strong enough to face them. He will have the advantage of knowing a battlefield with plentiful hideouts, but he has never fought a war before, and your father's men are paid for war. I have to do something… but I don't know how."

The inventor contemplated the young man by his side. Despite his youth and chaotic experience, he was a leader who carried the weight of the future of his tribe and its children on his frail shoulders. Sudden seriousness was sculpted upon his alabaster traits, but a flicker of juvenile fear fleetingly floated past his azure gaze. And in the moonlit mirror of their icy blue surface, he saw only _himself_.

"What, that's not funny!" the silver-haired teenager nudged him gently as he nervously giggled. "Did I say something _funny_?"

"I just realised something. You're as afraid of us as we are of you, Drifters of Colonists alike… Did I tell you how I lost my leg?"

"A _dragon_ bit it off trying to catch you falling from the sky?" he tenderly taunted.

"That's hilarious, Jack," Hiccup playfully snapped back. "Seriously, it is."

"I don't know, seeing the number of times you've been _falling around_ since I met you, I wouldn't be _too_ surprised."

"Must be some kind of _snowball effect_ after falling in love with you. Anyways…"

"Wait, you love me?"

"No, of course not. Really, didn't you notice? Anyways, it was …"

 _Seven years earlier_

Astrid's blue eyes were full of tears. And those tears were full of smoke and fire. The proud sails adorned with the Berk Steel crest had turned fearful, devoured by the ardent flames under the emerald roof of the mangrove's dense branches. The raiders' pitiful makeshift harpoons, made from irregular iron links and dirty linen rags, desperately kept the ship tied to the tree roots arched just above the sea water's shallow surface. The alert bells, despite the obviousness of the danger, rang through the smoky air, along with the customary call for _Drifters_. The wooden deck was ablaze, and before Hiccup's eyes only Astrid's small silhouette cut out a shadow in the blinding light. Valiantly, as the model Miseralian she was, she poured the salty water onto the burning wooden planks.

And then Hiccup saw her eyes. Not that he were good at all at reading people. But if there were one person he knew better than himself, it must have been her. The game and training companion his father had given to him. She looked towards him. She saw _through_ him. Her eyes were mirrors. The panic fear around them was imprinted onto her pale irises. She was afraid. As much as anyone else, she was. She was afraid, and she was _brave_. He, Hiccup, was useless.

" _Drifters!_ " yelled a crazed Gobber, hastily barging past the puny boy with a heavy trolley full of weapons.

The teenager painfully sat up on the planks, shaking the soot off his unkempt auburn hair. He slowly rubbed his back while getting up on his unsteady feet. And saw _them_. From where he stood, they were but shadows falling from the trees, rising from the roots, wings of darkness outstretched before the flaming backdrop, supply landing onto the deck as if unaware of gravity. Miseralians or outlaws, only shadows stood aboard Gobber's commerce ship.

"Hiccup, get your useless _toy_ out the way!"

Precipitately, the boy scrambled to his knees to look for the object fallen from the leather straps on his back when he had been tossed to the ground. He managed to grab the wing of the miniature teleguided plane, painted in a bright layer of baby blue for a baby boy by his mother herself during her pregnancy. He took the object, hardly larger than his palms, closely against his chest. The rest of its body had been less lucky. The tiny tail fin had been squished by a heavy boot, revealing twisted cables and displaced cogs beneath the fractured metal surface. _Ominous_. And suddenly, Hiccup knew what to do. He had to fix it. At least that was something he thought he _understood_.

Sprinkling a trail of tiny screws and fragmented gears in his ungainly wake, he made his way to the workshop in the ship's cabin. He ignored the dark winged forms flying around him. He ignored the protestations of the crew. He ignored the nudges and the jibes. He ignored the ardent flames licking his linen sleeves and his leather boots. He had to fix it. He had to _fix_ it.

The darkness of the cabin greeted him like an old friend. Lighting the candle from the fire outside, Hiccup switched on the constellite-powered soldering iron whose indigo glowering intensity slowly grew. That was actually going to be _fun_. Methodically, he sorted the screws on his messy desk space by size to figure out which ones were needed. Snapped off the damaged cables with the tongs strapped to his belt. Soldered new ones in, squinting in deep focus from behind his tarnished protection goggles. Welded the carcass back together under a dribble of icy sea water. Hiccup sighed. There was only him and the plane, alone in the semi-obscurity. No Drifters. No fire. No one to hush him around and call him useless. Nothing he could not comprehend.

In mere seconds he was on the deck again. His ears were deaf to the incandescent agitation around him. His eyes were riveted to the mooring lines the raiders had thrown onto the ship. If they could be thrown off, the commerce barge would be safe. Hiccup's green gaze glistened with excitation amongst the flames. Now was his time. Now he could be a true Miseralian. Now he could prove his worth.

Breathe. Focus. Set the helix frequency to the most silent. He seized the closest hook from one of the ropes and inserted it into the freshly dedicated metal orifice at the end of his tiny plane's tail. Then, clutching onto the little remote he wore between the crossed leather buckles over his striped shirt, he set it into flight. Lifted the little blue brass lever. Spun the second-largest cog by one eighty degrees. The automaton looped around the set of ties, the cloth rope trailing behind it progressively tangling all cables together into a rudimental knot. That would suffice. Or so he hoped. Heat and concentration made a veil of sweat descend before his eyes. His tongue ran dry against his tight lips. His ten toes, probably for the last time, unbeknownst to the boy, nervously tapped within his boots. The tip of his fingernails gripped the asperities of the tiny gears on the remote to…

He was barely aware of the silent mass that crashed against him. Of the warm breath descending upon the hair at the back of his neck. Of the rough fingers plastered against his mouth. Of the leathery wings wrapped around his scrawny silhouette. Of the almost pleasantly chill blade placed right under his throat.

Someone screamed his name. Astrid, maybe. He could hardly make it out.

Somehow, he was alive. Somehow, he was breathing. Somehow, his fingers were in motion. Somehow, his toy plane took off with the entanglement of ropes tied onto it. Somehow, the Drifter behind him was caught under the makeshift net.

Somehow, he had survived.

Hiccup had survived. Alone. Without even the help of his mother and her fearless spear, whom he had heard had disappeared while trying to protect him, back when he was only an infant. With the raspy sound of metal against wood, the raider's knife fell onto the deck. Alone, the boy would finish this off.

Grasping the weapon with both hands, he raised it above the Drifter's face. Yes, _his face_. For he was no faceless _creature_ , no monster with traits of coal and eyes of flames, no savage who drank the blood of those he sacrificed. For he was human, as human as all of those who stood on this ship. Human, just as the brave Miseralians who were butchering with axes and maces his kin all around them. Human, just like that distorted picture of himself reflected in those inky black eyes.

Human, just like… something Hiccup could not quite grasp.

Like…

He hardly remembered what came next. Later, Trader Johann would tell the tale that Hiccup's captive treacherously grabbed one of the twisted metal anchors at the end of a rope and tossed it against Hiccup's leg, damaging the bone beyond repair. Gobber would shrug it off and say that the raider was simply trying to shake his ties off when he crippled the boy. Snotlout would sneer that the Berk Steel heir had dropped his knife onto his foot and was too ashamed to talk about it. In truth, the young inventor had no idea.

Amidst the flames around him and within his leg, amongst the fumes of the burning wood and of his dimming consciousness, beneath the vault of mangrove leaves glowing gold and emerald against the sparks and the asphyxiating vapours, as dark silhouettes were about to toss the Drifter overboard with the mess of ropes, all Hiccup remembered were the eyes. And those eyes were full of fire and smoke. And the fire and smoke were full of tears. And the tears were full of fear.

* * *

"The things we're afraid of… are the things we don't… understand", concluded the young pilot, rolling over in his bed with a loud yawn.

"Hiccup…"

Jack interrupted himself as the dark-haired youth turned his back to him. It seemed like he needed his sleep, after all. For a second, he contemplated the perfect calm painted onto his freckled traits. Without his usual solemnity and sense of responsibility, Hiccup looked almost fragile in his somnolence, almost…

"Good night", murmured the silver-haired teenager, who could not help dropping a snowflake-light mischievous kiss on the nape of that ticklish neck.

* * *

Late night faded into early morning as Anna's feet treaded the crimson Eastern Extremesian carpet of the empty dining hall. The silk sleeve of her deep green dressing gown brushed the thick Centralesian cedar of the long table, bearing at its end the silent weight of eight thousand salad plates. The portraits on the wall, proportioned in the fashion of Sunkenlandian masters, looked down sternly at her. It was such an awkward time to be up, she reflected. Maybe because it had no name dedicated to it – very late night or very early morning, not-quite-sunrise and not-quite-moonset, already far too warm to want to walk around, when the light is yellow-ish gray-ish and so profoundly unworthy of being depicted in any kind of painting or any sort of book. But then, the unnamed time of the night – day – whatever – was unnamed because everyone was usually asleep. Everyone except Anna, who had decided to take an early night and could sleep no longer. How awkward. And how lonely. Even the smell was weird, at that time. At the end of the table, against the sculpted oaken chair...

"Hanging there, are you?" she joked softly to herself.

 _There_ was where it was! No wonder Hans struggled to find his cane, in such an immense mansion. He would be glad to have it back. Cheerfully, the young aristocrat took the object into her hand, absent-mindedly wiping off the fresh humidity with her sleeve. That chillness was welcome, especially with that _fire_ in the fireplace.

For the coals were burning quietly, in that hot tropical not-quite-morning. Silently, the Baroness cursed the forgetful servants. Between the sparks fluttered minuscule fragments of charred fabric, together with what seemed like carbonised remnants of rubbery wig-like hair. Well, that explained the fishy smell. Ah, Hans, her own Hans. She knew, of course, that he was a master in the art of disguise. She knew the costume and wig were most likely his. But why would he throw it away to the flames? Was there something he was attempting to conceal from her and the rest of the household? To the members of her very _own_ salon?

Thoughtfully she fiddled with the handle of the cane. And just as thoughtfully, she almost dropped the blade concealed inside, in a slippery metallic sound. Oh, _a sword_. It was just like its owner. Charming and gentlemanly on the outside, sharp and lethal on the inside. If only its deadly tip were not to be pointed towards them. If only she knew more, if only there were more she understood… or if only she knew nothing and enjoyed the bliss of ignorance…

Footsteps in the corridor interrupted her mind's wanderings. She sheathed the weapon precipitately. Only to see Kai pacing around, restless at early hours, as was usual. She let out a relieved sigh. No one had seen her. After all, servants were ever so slightly invisible people. Upon noticing her, he mimicked her clumsy handling of the cane, obtaining a sheepish smile from her as he always did. Such a good man he was. Always copying everyone's expressions, gestures, voices and even handwritings to entertain the aristocratic siblings. Such a good invisible man indeed.

Oh, well, she could get him to go to the kitchens and fill a bucket of cold water to put out the fire. That were what stewards were for, after all. What did she expect? That _Olaf_ would have come help her with the flames?

* * *

 **Fun fact: If you know what an enhancer trap is, kudos to you and have fun doing genetics. Anyways, understanding that is of relatively little evidence to the story. This chapter is too long and I forgot what I wanted to say in the A/N. And then a Hiccup flashback happened. Other people will be getting them too. By fandom requests – as opposed to fan requests – I expanded Anna's arc to make it as important as those of the other main four. Funly enough, it is entirely natural in relation to canon and to the symbolic/mythological parallels. More sequential chapters with everyone, like this one, are likely to be coming soon. The idea is to give a rather film-like series of shots of what they're doing all together in the house for a while.**

 **Announcement: I solemnly swear I will find a way to upload character sketches. Meanwhile, please R &R, F&F, constructively comment, stay awesome xx**


	19. A Tale Of Two Mothers

**I am back, it seems. Thanks for everything. I hope what follows makes sense**

faisyah865: Haha, that was bound to happen… wait what? Can I please see that photo? Pleeeeaaaase? :)

 **Chapter 19, where two characters (and the author, in fact)** **realise** **that they are not that different and some mysteries are unveiled, but not all.**

 **CW: class-based discrimination, [purple prose, discussion of feminism, sepia-and-sepia morality, mild symbolism]**

* * *

She was the queen of Plant Alpha. At the head of a commercial empire that was ascending to the rank of most influential in all of the Eastern Extremesian Continent, there she sat. She, Elinor DunBroch, who had come from the rainy highlands of Northern Cornucopia less than a decade ago. She, who had learnt the art of placing her pawns of steel behind curtains of silk and velvet. She, who had risen by the strength of her words and her observant eyes from behind feathery lace fans. She, who had entered the complex engine of trust and trade, altered it and made the powerful mechanism _need_ her. She, as powerful as a _woman_ could hope to be on this Continent. Even the _General_ would have been proud of his disciple.

Jerome Corona had an ever so slightly excessive sense of self-delusion. In his residence zeppelin amongst the fleet of Plant Alpha, he had designed and built a reception room not without resemblance to a throne room. The long gallery was covered by a high trompe-l'oeil ceiling, where the finest artists in the region had represented a pantheon against the composedly clouded celestial vault of a perfect blue sky. Amongst the tropical birds and exotic flowers, were evidently painted Jerome and Evelyn Corona, bearing to the skies the small silhouette of their daughter, whose solar hair flowed down amongst the clouds, the draped silks and ornate velvets like a river of gold. The brightly white alabaster flourishes framing the picture descended in graceful vegetal volutes amongst the wrought iron structure that supported the ceiling. Between the metal columns studded with evenly spaced hexagonal headed bolts, white marble busts were disposed, their well-proportioned traits all slightly turned towards the end of the room, where, on a raised platform, next to the bust of the late Madam Evelyn Rose as the Amazon River, the folds of her cashmere veil exquisitely chiseled into stone before her traits, stood the imposing stainless steel throne of the hegemon of Corona & Sons. A simple, angular chair, whose back, far higher than its occupant's head, was engraved with the ubiquitous sun of Crownsworth. Such was the chair in which Elinor melancholically sat.

She was the queen of Plant Alpha, but such a desolate Plant Alpha it was. At the apex of its splendor, its sky was depleted of the dirigibles and other balloons that had spun their helices away to attack the Weselton Exposition in retribution. As the Corona & Sons empire was about to vanquish the old monopoly holders of the Company of the Southern Isles to impose their supremacy over the New Continent, its gentlemen and mercenaries had left the platforms and hallways empty from the thumps of their nail-studded boots and the metallic clangs of their canes and rifles. Only the dark little workers scurried down there in the mines, like termites digging their mound. Mr. Jerome had left Elinor, his most trusted advisor, in charge during his absence. As the world and the rich depths of the Earth sat at her feet, she had no choice but to wait for her fate to come at her.

Elinor DunBroch _knew_ Mother Gothel would come. Of course she did, _she_ had ordered it. A little bit of gold always helped to hire an intermediary. She had craftily designed all of this, every tiny tooth of every little cog of a well-oiled strategy. She had done it for the peace. She had done it for her daughter. For if she was a leader of men, she was first and foremost a mother.

Her brown eyes watched with apparent impassibility as the matron in red was led in by the servants in their gold and purple livery. She showcased her beauty like a blooming flower in autumn, Mrs. DunBroch noted. Behind the perfectly put-together outfit and the lusciously brushed ebony locks, she saw the shadow of wrinkles that betrayed a greater age than she would admit to. She had prepared to meet a man, as was obvious. A man whose heart she had hoped to claim. A man whose wife, from next to the throne, looked down at her with her white marble glare.

Instead, she stared up at the frail, elegant Elinor on the oversized metal chair.

"Madam, I do not believe we have been introduced. I am Mrs. Gothel, of the household of Crownsworth in Camfordshire, Cornucopia and advisor to Mr. Jerome Corona."

Every word of her mouth was charming and conciliating. Every syllable was an attempt to seduce and persuade. Every letter breathed confident ambition.

"Mrs. Elinor of Clan DunBroch, acting manager of Plant Alpha and executive officer of Corona & Sons. Delighted to meet you."

"And so am I."

The highland woman shifted on her chair, concealing her pale streaks of gray hair beneath her long brown braids in the process. The loose sleeves of her dark green dress covered her knees with their intricately embroidered golden patterns. From within her black lace gloves, her fine fingers tapped the arm of the steel throne. Her calculating gaze remained expressionless. She needed to get that woman rid of that mask of self-confidence to see what she was really plotting. She would rip off that velvety skin of courtesy to bare all the little mechanisms to the sunlight.

"We're between women. There's no point in formally standing here. Should we take a turn around the room?"

As Mother Gothel could not refuse, her host walked down the steps to offer her arm. Emerald bat-wing sleeve against tight scarlet fabric, they the casually strolled on the chequered floor. Lifting her slender chin, the Prussoroman woman looked ahead, away from Elinor's eyes. No wrong move was allowed. They were queens on a chessboard. And only time would tell who, of the red and the green women, would be the dark, and who would be the light.

"The original of the Cardinal Stokes's bust is in the infirmary in Crownsworth," commented Mother Gothel matter-of-factly as they walked past a bust. "He bears such a resemblance to Mr. Corona from the right side, do you not believe?"

"You have a sharp eye, dear Gothel… surely, you have seen in which state the Colonies are. Surely you have heard about the situation."

It was less of an attempt to shift back to business than a topic change to attempt to destabilise her interlocutor. The matron was well aware of it, as the brown burning gaze suddenly turned to her.

"Indeed, I have. Jerome Corona is avenging his daughter's death by attacking the Exposition held by the Duke of Weselton, patron of the Stabbingtons who attempted to take Miss Rapunzel as a hostage. But the girl is alive and well with the seventh Andersen brother. I have come to let Jerome see the truth. He will believe me, that I know, and bring back the peace in exchange for her. But Mr. Corona is away, so I ask you to trust me. I have brought a letter signed by Miss Corona's own -"

Mrs. DunBroch waved her hand lightly as the Gothel started to withdraw the slip of paper from her sleeve.

"So you _did_ believe the letter."

The letter. _The_ letter. So Elinor knew everything. Either she had hired a spy, or, more likely, she had orchestrated everything. Oh, the woman in green was a ruthless schemer. Not that there were rules. Not that there were laws. Not that there was a moral compass that pointed towards the light and away from the darkness. Not that there was anything more, after all, than shades of sepia.

"The letter? I didn't. But Jerome would have. That is how little he has time for his own daughter, to the point not to be able to identify her writing style. But tell me, you found a good counterfeiter."

"Servants are perfect for the job," Elinor answered, noting how quickly the Gothel had understood. "They are discreet, nearly invisible in fact. They follow their masters all day, borrow notes scribbled by their hand or weapons left on tables. They act right there, behind our noses, and we fail to see them. You see, the household of Arendelle is noble but broke. The Baronesses hardly have enough to sustain a majordome and a handmaid. Naturally, their most faithful servant, a certain Kai, whom I met at the Exposition, accepted to shadow Hans Andersen, a competitor of ours, for a handful of coins. The youngest Andersen had his eyes on Kai's mistress, Lady Anna, as is well-known. He also happened to have exceptional falsifying skills. I mean, seeing the number of servants going around Mr. Andersen, there had to be one a bit less stupid than the others. And seeing how many servants who have been regularly reporting to me, I knew I would have been able to find Miss Corona as soon as any of them saw her, dead or alive."

Oh, Mother Gothel was starting to see who Elinor was, behind the masquerade of velvet and lace. A small bourgeois who had reached her status through cunning and effort. A woman who had known the servants for she had lived amongst then. A woman who had risen from the bare ground, just as she had herself, who had used every jagged tooth of every rough gear of the social engine to climb to the level she was at. A woman who was fiercely determined, not unlike…

"If you have someone after Rapunzel, why did you bring me here? Why hire that Kai to dress up and ask me to come escorted by the Stabbingtons?"

She had a certain idea, but she wanted to hear the words from Elinor's mouth. She wanted to hear her voice break over the sharpness of the syllables…

"Because servants are invisible, and the Corona & Sons heiress cannot be brought back by someone invisible," the highland woman spoke evenly. "She will only follow someone she _believes_."

"You speak in parallels and parables. Why would you trust me to bring her back? And what would I get in exchange?"

That bargaining power. That delectable bargaining power the Gothel had when she was needed. She felt the chessboard turn as the two negotiators reached the far corner of the reception room. Elinor had to be more desperate than she seemed willing to show in order to ask for the help of an unknown woman who courted the man she was obtaining favours from. That only secured the matron's position. Elinor deliberately

"You want a parable, you will have one. There is an old legend from the plains of my native land. Once upon a time, in a faraway land some your people would call, I believe, by the name of Caledonia, was a young princess, with hair as bright as a summer fire, who attempted to change her fate..."

"I may be from Prussoroma, Madam, but I do know the folk tales of Cornucopia," Mother Gothel interrupted. "After their dispute, the princess and her mother finally reconciled, and order and peace were back. What is that you mean? It does not determine our destinies. It is but a legend."

Elinor abruptly swiveled around, the whirl of her sleeves forcing Gothel between two impassive marble statues. Their eyes were mere inches away. The Gothel's hand was on her wristwatch, ready to release the blade concealed within. In their casual silence, a storm broke loose. A trigger had lit the engine of war, and its blind power was strong enough to crush all of them. And there they stood, as solid as menhirs and as motionless. For the futures of those around and behind them rested on their slender shoulders, on those frail pillars to the chessboard.

"Legends are lessons," Elinor murmured to the matron's ear. "They ring with the truth."

The last silky veils of doubt were shed. The Gothel knew.

"You have a child, probably a daughter," she said in an equally low, threatening tone. "And you have a dream. To mend that bond between you and her, a bond torn by pride. Pride on which side, I would not know, not that it matters."

"How do you know?"

For the first time, she thought she could perceive the slightest wisp of worry dance in Elinor's eyes. Check to the green queen.

"I am a mother, if not by blood, but by milk and by love. I can recognise one when I see her. You live to protect your child, just as I protect mine. We are like two bears casting their tall shadows onto our enemies. No one can stand in your way but another bear. No one but _me_. Now tell me everything. _Trust me_."

As she edged forward, her supple black locks bouncing off her ample breasts, Mrs. DunBroch had to back down, the woman in red having shed full light over her heart.

"My daughter, Merida, has been rescued by Mr. Andersen and the Ladies of Arendelle just after Kai found Rapunzel. She had left Plant Alpha for the Berk ship after we were attempting to strike a trade proposal… My relation with her was… tense. I… fear she would not trust me. She would not trust me. I see you have love for your Rapunzel. Fly to the Andersen villa and convince her. Persuade her to come here with you and ask her father to stop the war. Maybe she will trust you. Maybe we will manage to bring the peace back. Maybe you can… try and bring my Merida back, too."

Check again. Even though the foster mother took no pleasure in this one. They were two mothers trying to patch up their relationships with their daughters. Two mothers whose pride had gone too far. Two mothers who would destroy anything on their path and alter fate itself to get their children back. Legends rung with the truth. They were lessons.

"Give me the Stabbingtons and their ship again. I will do everything that is in my power. I swear on my daughter's golden hair."

"And I swear on mine's red curls."

Elinor's delicate hand went to the oval medallion hanging at her belt and handed it over to the Prussoroman woman. With febricity, the latter opened the delicately embossed lid, half as large as the palm of her hand, to see a most meticulously embroidered portrait of a young girl, as elegant as her mother was, orange locks cascading down her pale shoulders. A short, curly strand had been pinned by the tiny image, as bright as a will o' the wisp.

"Then we have agreed," said the highland woman, almost disappointed.

"One last thing. Mr. Corona will know nothing. You know how close he is to me, how he has come to trust me after long years of faithful service. A word of mine to his ear can mean your triumph – or your demise. Everything has to appear as the initiative of Merida and Rapunzel. Jerome shall never know either of us has been involved."

For both of them were women, the Gothel thought bitterly, and women always bloomed in darkness, be it amongst the cinders of a kitchen or behind the curtains of a bedroom, away from the lights of power and fame, silently weaving the tapestry of their entangled fates. And in that instant, they were so intricately interlaced that breaking their mandatory pact would mean nothing but chaos. Elinor knew it very well; she had no choice. Within her, only her pride boiled angrily at the imposed condition. She had wished to kill two birds with one stone, to have her daughter back and gain Mr. Corona's confidence for reestablishing peace. She had hoped to bring back order amongst the torn fabric of the commercial clans and achieve a durable balance. She had dreamed to be able to protect her family and her people, as willful and belligerent as they were, as scarred and imperfect as they would always be, with her thin white hands. She, the puny woman with an ego as large as the shadow of a bear. What did she think? She was a bad woman. She was a bad mother. She would never be able to put others before her self-importance.

"Your dirigible is ready and waiting for you. I wish you a safe trip, Madam Gothel. It was a pleasure to meet you."

And even in defeat she was poised and elegant. Her courtesy was her ultimate weapon, the one she would never put down on any table or by any bed. Her courtesy was her shield, and for a second she hardly cared about anything else. Ah, how accomplished a woman she was. Yes, even in defeat, until she was alone.

Ah, her daughter. Her little Merida.

Her wing-like sleeve powerfully swung around, knocking the nearest bust to shatter onto the floor. She hardly noticed which one it was, as she stood still amongst the uneven shards of white marble. For an instant, she almost wished it were the disgustingly perfect sculpture of Mrs. Corona. Check-mate. To whom, she could not tell. Not that it made a difference.

Her Merida. Her daughter.

She would let no one touch a hair of hers. She would let no one trade her against their precious conditions and their scrap of approbation from the hegemon of the Corona empire. She would defend her until her last breath, with the last drop of blood that ran in her veins. If only… if only the young archer could read her loving mind. If only she could hear her voice. If only.

Her _own_ little lass. Her noble maiden fair.

"Madam DunBroch."

She saw the purple livery from the corner of her eye. What was it, now? Servants were invisible, but they were not deaf. Even so, that did not allow them to interfere with their masters' business. If she destroyed the furniture, that regarded her, and her alone. And then she was acting like a teenager. Throwing a tantrum just like her rebellious daughter. Her own youth had been far from wise and uneventful…

Collecting herself, she turned to the valet with a graceful dip of her head.

"Is there anything?"

"Madam, the General has sent a radiomessage to your quarters. The Queen has sent him here, with the Onyx aboard his Nightmare."

"Good. You may dispose."

The Nightmare. The Onyx. The General.

None of this would have happened without Merida's provocation at the Exposition, without that spark that set the machine on fire. None of this would have happened had she been a better mother. The bad news were: with the Cornucopian army sent to the Colonies with the most advanced weapon of the time, the era of trade and trust had turned into one of faith and fear, and deterrence power of the military was everything in the balance. In other terms, the General was everything.

The General was everything, and the good news were: he was on _her_ side. Or rather, Elinor was on his. He had educated her in the arcana of negotiation and politics, initiated her to the highest spheres of his world. For both of them fought to maintain peace, he with the protection and respectful dread inspired by his army and she with the weight of tradition and the skill of her persuasion. He would back her up and allow her to hand Rapunzel over to her father. He would not stop her from getting Merida back. He would defend her when she tried to strike a truce. Ah, how proud he must have been for all her scheming. How good a _team_ they formed. How high she had risen, to the constellite light of his experience. How hard she had fought for her clan and kin. And that would be all legends would remember.

For legends were lessons. For they rung with the truth. For they were luxographs in dark and light. From this conflict, the one who emerged as the victor would be sung as the white player, and the defeated would be the have played the black. Shades of sepia were too complicated for fairytales.

The green queen or the red queen, after all, none of that really mattered. Elinor DunBroch or the Gothel, only the ending would determine who had played the bad guy's part. Their legends would be immortal, but they, the women in the shadows, were as short-lived as gray clouds under the tempest. As unsubstantial as dust clouds stuck in an intricate clockwork mechanism. For that was what mothers always were.

If mothers were such strong protectors, it was because they had been fighting since the dawn of time, for as long as they could remember. Because what they had been fighting was none other than the powerful, heartless, amoral engine of Time, irrevocably withering their hair and crushing their bones. Because they had always attempted to stop it, to alter the course of fate to keep their children by their side until the last split second.

Ever since the first candle was lit by night. Ever since the first mother sang the first lullaby. What did they hope to achieve? Keep their children asleep on their knees? Stop and reverse Time to make them stay in childhood, with them forever? Avoid their inevitable teenage, blossoming, adulthood and eventual _departure_? Evelyn Corona might have had something about golden flowers and halting Time. Elinor's lullaby, however, emanated from the deep roots of her native emerald plains.

 _A naoidhean bhig, cluinn mo ghuth_

 _Mise ri d' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhàn_

 _Ar rìbhinn òg, fàs a's faic_

 _Do thìr, dìleas féin_

In her pitiful, profoundly pointless task, immobile amongst the marble debris, on the chessboard floor, she let the words sprout out between her lips, like a summer source that could not be extinguished, as long as lived a mother singing her child to sleep.

 _A ghrian a's a ghealach, stiùir sinn_

 _Gu uair ar cliù 's ar glòir_

 _Naoidhean bhig, ar rìbhinn òg_

 _Maighdean uasal bhàn_

Maybe, in the great tapestry of entangled things, Merida could hear her. Maybe her noble fair maiden would grow and shine to the sound of her voice. Maybe, even, she would come back. Maybe.

* * *

 **Fun fact: First time there's anything in a foreign language in this story! For the English translation of Noble Fair Maiden from Gaelic, refer to the Disney wiki. Eek, red herring in previous chapter. Did you think the wig guy was Hans? I did, too… just kidding… really? I was re-watching/re-listening to bits of Brave today and realised how similar Tangled and Brave are. Which has given a lot more flesh to this chapter. I don't really feel like going into the detail of the symbolism, which has some very basic elements of psychoanalysis… I kind of intend to write some kind of dissertation/blog post about it though. References to both films are plentiful, hope you'll notice them ;) Even though some feminist ideas have cropped up in characters' thoughts in this chapter and tiny bits of the previous, I do not see myself as a feminist writer. There aren't strong female characters, just strong characters, from their overall environment and independently from their gender. I claim to be a technophile humanist… ahem, back to the story. Taking a turn around the room is a Pride and Prejudice thing *shouts out to Jane Austen* I had no idea for the cardinal's name… Stokes is the name Alec's family had before they bought their noble name and title in Tess of the D'Ubervilles *shouts out to Thomas Hardy*, the Coronas having obtained the Crownsworth lands and titles in the same way. And Stokes's theorem is the fluid of life. Don't think I have much else to add.**

 **PS: I remembered what I wanted to say in the previous chapter. I find 'Snowball Effect' is a good nickname for the Hijack/Frostcup pairing, don't you think? Tell me in the comments below!**

 **Announcement: I HAVE A DEVIANTART ACCOUNT. Yes, it is true. I do not intend to use it for any other means but dumping story-related character sketches. Please not that I do not consider myself a graphic artist of any worth. But I am pretty happy with Astrid's drawing, so please go check it out! I have the same user name and links to the pictures are on my FF profile.** **Don't forget to R &R, F&F, constructively comment and stay awesome xx**


	20. In the Name of the Sun

**Who thought I was dead? I sure did…**

Noon30ish: Aw, thanks! *looks back at own older art* *hides away in shame*

 **Chapter 20, where the lighting is kind of artistic and Punzie's life finally begins, even though perhaps not in the expected way...**

 **CW: dialogue and stuff**

* * *

Such grandeur in such a small chapel should hardly be allowed at all, according to Rapunzel's well-versed aesthetic eye. Under the black ribs of the superbly high ceiling, the abstract stained glass panels diffused a majestic glow that religiously bathed the reduced space, painting geometric touches of fresh turquoise, intense indigo, gentle gold and blood red onto the heiress's braided mane. The young woman looked around nervously through the quiet semi-obscurity, as if at a stage as the play was yet to start. Even the two suits of armour on either side of the door behind her, each clutching their ornate silver ceremonial swords, seemed to intently stare ahead.

What should she expect? Why meet in such secret? No earlier than minutes ago, a note had been handed to her by one of the servants, indicating Lady Anna wanted to talk to her in the intimacy of the manor's chapel. Rapunzel had hardly needed to wonder what about. It _had_ to be about her abilities. It had to be about the way she had with constellite and the manner in which her hair lit up whenever she used her unique skill. She knew Anna had pierced the mystery as to how and why such a rare and _fashionable_ curiosity had arisen, and would come to tell her the full truth. She knew it would make sense, finally, that all the messy scribblings she had gotten from botany volumes in the mansion's library would finally become clear to her. Or at least, she hoped so. The wooden angel carved beside the swirling marble columns of the altar smiled eerily and mischievously back at her, her delicately sculpted feathers half-folded with the theatricality of a velvet curtain. Rapunzel stepped forwards to look at what they concealed and gasped at the immediately recognisable silhouette.

" _Mother_! Mother Gothel!"

In a ruffle of embroidered viridian taffeta skirts, the blonde ran up to the older woman, wrapping her pale arms around her neck in a warm hug. Oh, what a delightful surprise Anna had got for her. The sleek raven locks caressed her cheek with agreeable familiarity.

"Mother, it's been - I mean, it's seemed like such a _long_ time - getting to see you, here, on this continent - you won't _believe_ everything I've -"

Suddenly noticing the matron's sternly formal stare, she stepped back and executed a curtsy.

"Madam, it is my greatest pleasure to have you here."

"I am flattered, Miss Corona. It _has_ been quite some time. Look at yourself, all grown up in that colonial gown. Why don't you tell me about these past few days?"

"Thanks, I…"

"Oh, never mind, I was just teasing you," Gothel spoke, carefreely running her hand through her black curls. "Don't be offended, you'll have plenty of time to tell me about all your _adventures_ with your little friends on the zeppelin back home. Now, however, I have some news for you."

Of course, why else would she have come? Rapunzel slapped herself mentally. Of course she must have heard about everything that happened already. Of course…

"I'd be delighted to hear them," she answered with a cordial smile.

"Father has heard of your… visit. He will be back in Plant Alpha for supper in time to see both of us. He'll be so surprised to see how much you've changed since the last time. Almost a lady, his little Rapunzel."

The heiress feigned to ignore the 'almost' to focus on the earlier part of the message. From what she had heard, her father was at the Exposition, waging war upon the Duke of Weselton and the Stabbingtons… did it mean...

"Will he consent to put the fighting to an end, then?"

She looked away from Gothel, eyes laid upon the gentle patterns of light on the black marble floor.

"You look grown up, but you've yet got to _think_ like one... He _could_ , of course, did he not have that stubbornness that seems to run in the family. The whole point is: will he accept his mistake along with all the reparations that ensue? It is a sticky situation, dear, much more than you believe. You set something more powerful than you thought off balance with your short-sighted desperately romantic whim. But if it can go one way, then it can go the other, don't you agree?"

"You mean... I can mend it all?"

The matron could clearly read the youthful hope in the maiden's green eyes, and couldn't help grinning back. The way she had made her, assembled her, little fragment by little intricate, well-crafted fragment, the way she had manufactured her as a younger mirror image of herself. Oh, how much she wanted to be that young, that hopeful again. If one could rewind the clock…. if time could go one way, it could go the other, she mused ironically inside her mind. Things didn't work in that manner, but she knew the construction of her own edifice, of her own little Rapunzel - so she could meticulously proceed to the deconstruction. She knew Rapunzel at least as well as she knew herself, and she knew where she should start - with the girl's pride.

"I mean, you can try and heal the wounds you have caused. If he hears you speak, it may affect his humour, maybe even change his mind. _You_ are his little treasure, he values you before all things… he'll listen to you. He'll hear all of what you've seen, all of what you've heard and learned during the last days. And I'll be there by your side, too."

"You'll help me? You think that'll work?"

"I hope so, darling. And I'm not the only one. Amongst your father's closest trade partners, some have voiced their trust for you too. At this point, your father's not entirely prepared for an all-out war, and he knows it. Had we had more time to reinforce our ties with the DunBroch mercenaries, our chances would have been significantly increased. But even the Andersens and the Weseltons are reluctant to fight. You see, the Crown of Cornucopia has yet to enter the military balance, but should they intervene, Frederik Andersen is worried they would side with us. On both sides, there is a hope for a truce. A truce that _you_ are the only one able to bring. "

She had to admit all she knew of all these distant warring parties was through her new friends of the Salon. The DunBroch heiress separated from her mother after a confrontation. The Anderson tradesman about to marry his beautiful aristocrat betrothed. The Miseralian aviator who had tried to avoid a war, only to have his clan involved in another. The white-haired Drifter who would have liked to have nothing to do with all those colonist conflicts at all. And her own Flynn, compromised by the situation while he had worked so hard to earn her father's trust, to be able to ask for her hand. All of these lives she could bring back together, as they should have been in the first place, in the grand, implacable clockwork of everything, as if that puny perturbation of the last couple of days had been almost invisible… All she had to do was one thing...

"Is Eugene coming with us? When are we leaving? Do I have time to thank Lady Anna? And her fiancé, and her sister… and everyone else, too! You'll see, I'll introduce you, I'm sure you'll enjoy their company."

"Eugene will come; I believe Jerome would also like a word with him. I'm certain you'll be able to convince Miss DunBroch to join, too. After the recent development, Mrs. Elinor has been worried not to hear from her. By the way, you can return this lovely gown to Baroness Anna, or whoever lent it to you. A… contact of mine has been able to provide you with a full new wardrobe in my airship ready for your disposition. Delightful Extremesian creations to suit your status."

"My… status?"

"Back in Cornucopia, you were an accomplished young lady from a wealthy family having acquired a title. But _here_ , you are the only daughter of a man who effectively owns just about half of the continent. You should at least let the world know that."

Rapunzel nodded with practised elegance, getting used to her new role. The matron's hand affectionately ran against her golden tresses, admiring the beautiful handiwork Gerda had done in incorporating delicate cog-shaped metallic pins into her braid. The ornaments suited her perfectly. The blonde wasn't just a gearwheel amongst others, she was the cornerstone of an engine that was powerful enough to establish a new order. An order where _she_ , the simple Gothel of humble birth, would stand there between the daughter and her father, their shadow covering the silver streaks in her dark hair...

"And then," the matron continued, slowly revolving around the young woman, never breaking eye contact, "when everything is settled and you're acclaimed for all you've done for everyone, we'll be back home! I know you'll want to explore the world some more and get introduced to the wonders of Eastern Extremesia, but you'll have more than enough time to do that when you gain your new titles. You see, this wasn't the only news I had."

With a wink of her dark lashes, she leant against the side of the altar, her thin fingers playing with the lace tablecloth, setting the tiny copper orbs of the miniature moon-centric planetarium on it to run around in playful circles, mimicking the dance of the celestial bodies around their immutable orbits, minuscule trails of blue light on their wake. She stood for an instant, at the top of her art and the climax of her act, letting the younger woman's impatience sink in.

"I had a chat with the Chancellor on the radiomessage. You know, the Chancellor to the Crown of Cornucopia himself. Even though I should call him the Viceroy, now, I suppose. It seems, dearest Lady of Crownsworth, that the Prince of Cornucopia himself is after your fair hand."

It took a few seconds for the heiress to register the new information. Mother Gothel knew that last move in her game had won over Rapunzel's stubbornness. The matron took as step back, admiring her masterpiece. A ray of sunlight had fallen onto her figure, enveloping every lock of her hair, transmuting the blackness into pure colour. There _she_ was, in the spotlight at last, her target within the reach of her polished fingernails and of her wrinkling fingers, after years of darkness and servitude. There it was, the masterwork of her life, tame and conquered, her emerald glare shining in expectation.

"The Prince… he's… wanting to... _propose_ to me?" she managed to stutter in her daze. "For real?"

"Why must you solely believe I'm joking when I'm not? This is getting tedious. Well, anything more spirited to say? Well, I have something to say. You don't need to wish to see the lights in the distance any more when half of the known world will soon be yours. You don't need to invent silly romances with your father's more than morally questionable underling when you have a real prince to come and take you far away. You don't need any of that immature drama. Just come to mama. Rapunzel, _just trust me_."

In a blinding carousel of possibilities, Rapunzel saw herself in the white Cornucopian light, the golden crown over her blonde head. She saw the crowd waltz, spinning in joyful circles all around her. She saw the zeppelins crowding the sky, flying the high colours of the Crownsworth name. She saw her father, grinning proudly, his most stunning amethyst-studded suit glittering in the light of a thousand lanterns. She saw her mother, just as on the mosaic back in Camford, fondly smiling too, the familiar shape of a multi-function pocket watch sitting in her white palm, the needles ticking, ticking, circling endlessly and dizzyingly, so warm, so real, so bright…

Yes, the years of error and isolation were behind, forgotten, erased like a mere rough sketch. Yes, finally, her life would _begin_.

Even though she had been expecting it, Gothel was hardly prepared to the vigour of Rapunzel's embrace. Slightly destabilised, she had to cling onto the candelabra by the altar for balance. How much _strength_ the young one had, she would never be enough reminded. This time, she kindly returned the hug, blissfully smiling with relief. Oh, how much she had feared, how much she had _felt_ for Rapunzel, for the daughter she'd never had, for the daughter she _almost_ had, at least starting from that very instant, dearly cuddled in against her heart, in the stained glass's magnificent light.

"Oh, _mother_ ," the blonde whispered, even though the other could not tell whether she was sobbing, "I'm so sorry. For all I did, in the last days, and ever. Please, forgive me."

"There, there, darling. You know I'm the only one who'll always be right here for you. I'm the only one who knows how to make you happy, no matter what…"

"Th-thank you."

The younger finally broke the tearful hug, daring to meet Gothel's dark gaze without flinching. Only then did the dark-haired woman notice that Rapunzel was standing in the full light, her slender shoulders, framed by the lace frills of the wide neckline, draped in dapples of crimson, cyan and emerald, loose strands of her rebellious hair burning pure white in the warm air. Evicted from her spotlight, the matron could not help but stare at the stunning vision.

"You know, I was only half-teasing when I said you've become a beautiful lady. I've known you since you were still a small child, when you painted with your bare hands and just started to learn to play the glass harpsichord. I've seen you grow, learn, make mistakes too, and blossom as the splendid woman you are now. You might have thought I was scornful, or selfish, or even jealous, but I've learnt to _love_ you, Rapunzel, as my own blood. I've learnt to love you when I got to know you. Now I love you more than anyone, because I know you _better_ than anyone, better than you know yourself, and maybe better than I know _myself_ , too. Mother knows what you want, what you dream for. Mother _always_ knows best."

"But of course you do," Rapunzel gasped, struggling to believe that there was no scornful comeback to that one honest-sounding compliment - but an idea sparked in her juvenile eyes, and her expression slightly changed. "Oh, how _blind_ I've been, you can't even imagine. Coming to the end of the world to find some answers, when I could just have asked _you_. Of course you know."

Smiling with fond melancholy, Rapunzel approached the candelabra and fidgeted with one of the small constellite crystals that diffused a faint light throughout the room. Removing it from its dedicated support, she delicately caught it between her fingers and even gently blew on it, causing a brusque surge of light, suddenly echoed by a faint aura around her golden hair.

"You know why _that_ is, don't you? Why I'm..."

Her voice trailed off, as she hoped Gothel to interrupt and tell her the answer was obvious all along, and that she had been stupid not to see it.

"Don't - don't do that! You'll hurt yourself! You know that's really dangerous, of course that's really dangerous! Put that back _immediately_."

But the girl held onto the indigo fragment, impatiently running her finger against the edge. Gothel _had_ to reveal the whole truth. Her past had to be exposed in full light, in the fully glory of its scraps of tiny levers and pulleys soldered together to make what she was, right there, right then. She wanted to know it all, to have it all, for her life to actually begin.

"You mean… you don't know?" she spoke after an instant of silence, her voice clear of any trace of anger but with a tint of disappointment.

"I know _about_ it, unlike you, I didn't a couple of _decades_ to notice it. I am observant, you see. I know about it, but I don't know how. Your father never told me."

A shadow fleetingly flew past her brown gaze. Jerome was _afraid_ , she realised. He was afraid she wouldn't love the child the same way if she knew. He was afraid of what all of that meant. And she resented it as well, for some day Rapunzel would have to know.

"But you can ask him," she added precipitately. "You're old enough to be told."

Gothel repressed a tinge of bitterness. Rapunzel would know it all, have it all, and see all of her most colourful dreams come true. And she, the greying matron by her side, would have some of it too, _through_ her. Through Rapunzel, she would live a second, more _perfect_ youth, the one she had worked towards for years. Like a puppeteer pulling the levers of a delicious little automaton that could play tricks with its ingenious system cogs and wheels, she thought sarcastically. Would it be _enough_? Would it be sufficient to fill the _void_ in her life? For middle-aged women were poor, brainless engines, hollow inside, waiting and dreading all at once…

"No," Rapunzel said softly, but decidedly. "I don't want to hear it from _him_. He never cared about me, he brought me up in a lie, all of those years. How can I tell he won't lie to me again? How can I make sure? I want you to tell me. You told me to trust you. You told me _you_ knew me better than anyone else."

"Dear, you'll be told at supper, it's all going to be all right. Don't be so upset."

"Upset? Me? But it's been nearly two _decades_ , mother! You know what, I don't want it for supper. I want it _now_ , I want it _here_. I don't want to stare out the windows singing waiting for a prince to pass by. When will my life begin? When will I finally get to know about my past, control my present and have plans for my future? You see, I might have been brought up by you. You may think you know me. But here's the point. You're wrong. Entirely wrong. I'm not _like_ you. I'm not like Father, either. _You_ can spend years clawing for scraps of happiness till your nails get broken and your hands get hard and dry from trying. You can be a well-oiled gear in a well-designed machine that receives the impulse it should and fulfils the illusory purposes it was designed by others to fulfill, through the vessel of others. You can live every day, like a clock ticks every minute or every second, letting the life run out of you slowly, hoping better days will come sometime. You can function as a part of a cramped, mediocre engine, living your life as if trapped in a dark, isolated tower, without ever dreaming bigger. Well, _I_ dream bigger. I don't want your shades of sepia. I don't want your awkward compromise. I don't want to botch the patching up some war that will have to happen some day or other. I don't want to listen to Father's lies. I don't want to marry the prince if that's part of some ridiculous political scheme you've got to gain some additional crumb of power. I don't want any of it. I want it all, in full colour, or I want nothing."

"Do you even hear yourself? You don't make any sense. Don't be so… _vague._ "

At the disapproval, the tingles felt delectable as they bubbled at the bottom of her gut. The constellite was shining through her closed fist, and her hair gleamed in furious silence, pressed against the stained glass surface. Every word she uttered was an incredible release of energy, as if all she had inside of her was threatening of boiling out, of brimming over, of taking over the world, of letting out some steam. And once she had started, she could not stop.

"Did you really think I'd follow you? Did you think I'd hand you Merida, and my father, and the Prince of Cornucopia? Did you really think I'd leave everything to come back with you? You call me blind, but look at yourself! You are everything I've always loathed, everything I've always hated deep down inside me. I don't want to live with you, work with you, or _be like_ you. And I'll never let you use me again, I swear in the name of the Sun. I swear I won't let you of Papa touch a hair of Flynn's, because he's mine, and I _love_ him, and I want him. I swear I'll protect Merida from you, and from any of my father's people who want to lay a single finger upon her. I swear I'll protect the Salon from you, and the rest of the world if I must, and you know why? Because I _can_."

As she spoke, she violently threw the speck of constellite against the marble tiles, causing a detonation and a flash of light. The matron had to step backwards, stumbling against the candelabra and knocking it over as she did. Shielding her eyes with her sleeve, she was left awestruck by the scene before her. It was at once terrible and beautiful. It was a carnage of colours, of light and darkness all entangled, of printed shapes of stained glass patterns that made her features so alien she looked profoundly human, of words that sounded so wrong they were almost right.

Oh, how could Mother Gothel have been so far from the truth? She had always thought Rapunzel was her personal sunshine, her perfectly crafted golden automaton, her delicate clockwork flower that would grow and bloom, expanding brass and copper parts that were made to fit exactly inside each other, each tiny tooth of each tiny wheel exactly manufactured to provide the exact right momentum at the right place and time, with an elegance that was so flawless it was almost uncanny. But the girl… the girl was a constellite-powered engine, a pure source of _energy_ , incandescent like the stuff of stars, burning its way out of her without reason or direction, capable of consuming her, of consuming them all, too powerful to be canalised, too unpredictable to be understood, too novel and different to be embraced, like an unstoppable racing steam vehicle, only leaving destruction to rebuild from in its wake.

"Is that you… Punzie?" Merida's voice sounded worriedly through the chapel's door, probably alerted by the explosion's noise since she stayed in the room closest to the chapel.

In her fit of rage, the heiress hardly paid any attention. Gothel, however, desperately clung to whatever she could use to solve her situation. She was on the brink of panicking. She was out of time. She was out of ideas. For a second, she had thought she was triumphant, and then she had lost it all, for a derisive, irrational matter. She had softened her mind, opened up her heart, only to have it smashed to pieces in a second. Maybe Rapunzel was right, maybe she was clutching to the shreds of opportunity wherever she found them. But she found her last shred of chance right there, so she had no choice but to seize it.

"You want me to be the bad guy?" she breathily addressed Rapunzel. "Fine. Now _I'm_ the bad guy."

A dark shadow was cast upon the maiden, and then Gothel was on her. Her embrace was just as warm and protective as ever, but this time, it left her no escape. From behind her, the bony arms grabbed her shoulders, forcefully turning her towards the door. Her ragged breath descended irregularly onto the nape of her neck, causing the thin golden hair to stand on end. Entangled messed up hair, entangled irregular heartbeats echoing in pregnant silence. With some absent-minded affection, two fingers stroked her porcelain cheek as the older woman broke the quietness.

"Come, dear," she cooed, earning a small surprised shudder from Rapunzel, before the latter realised she wasn't the one being talked to.

Merida burst into the chapel, her ghostly ivory nightgown flowing against her pale knees, an uncertain glint in her sky blue eyes.

"Who _are_ you?" she gasped in shock.

As the blonde was about to answer, Mother Gothel hissed a single word in a fashion that made her blood freeze in her veins.

" _Kai_."

"Now that can't be your - "

In other circumstances, Merida might have reflected that the woman must be a servant, since servants should hardly different from each other at all. In yet other circumstances, she may have followed Rapunzel's eyes and turned around in time to see the silent shadow swiftly move out of the darkness behind her at Gothel's call.

In the turn of event willed and crafted by the fates, however, her words were cut short by the sharp metallic click of a pistol being loaded right against the back of her head.

* * *

 **Ugh that was a long wait…**

 **Fun fact: 'In the name of the Sun' is a somewhat bold shortened version for the swearing phrase 'In the name of the Man in the Sky' - a widely used saying in Cornucopia. The shorter variant is particularly frequently employed by the Corona family and their clan, partly because their emblem is a golden sun.  
Yeah, that was a very dialogue-y chapter. As you've probably guessed, action will be back in the next one. And Jack and Hiccup and the rest of the crew will be, too. Oh, look, cliffhanger. (I wasn't even doing it on purpose I swear)**

 **Announcement: During the long months of withdrawal, I've taken some time to look at the older chapters, and well, some post-editing needs to be done, so I'll probably go through everything and clear out the mess when the story is complete. By the way, some huge plot holes have been worked around, so I should get back to updating… soon as in around next month? Until then, please read and review, follow and favourite, stay awesome xx**


	21. Entangled Fates

**New chapter! Sorry, that was quite a wait. My right hand decided to die after exams and some recordings. To compensate, this one is really long and even has a Game of Thrones reference in it.**

 **Chapter 21, where everything is near-perfect (but not quite) and natural (but not quite) and a mess, in the end, as always.**

 **CW: some discrimination, violence, murderous thoughts, death**

* * *

"Rapunzel! I was looking for you, I - ", came a new voice, yelping as the door came open again.

"Don't you even know how to _knock_?" Gothel sneered, warily eyeing at the newcomer's silhouette through the door frame. "You're Lady Anna, I presume. I have heard so _much_ about you."

By Anna's side stood a tall, elegant young man Gothel deduced must be her fiancé. With a muffled sigh, she wondered how many of the people living in the house would barge in through the door. Alerting Merida, who had been sleeping just next door, and having her interrupt had been part of her plan, but the servant realised that she and Kai might need to deal with some more _guests_.

"You are not in a position to judge my beloved's good manners," Hans spoke in a slow, threatening tone. "Now let go of Merida."

"Kai, just listen to him, put down your gun," Anna implored, her voice suddenly choked by the surprise of seeing her most faithful servant turned into a traitor.

Across her, the older man hardly flinched.

"Kai - it's me, Anna, your Baroness Anna. And I order you to put this weapon down and step back immediately."

Only silence answered her. The room stood in perfect immobility, bathed in colourful light. Anna chewed at her lower lips, biting back her anxiety. She could hardly get any more awkward than that. Or could she?

"Kai - _please_."

A collective gasp or stupor seized the group in the small chapel. It was against every possible unspoken rule and convention of high society that a landed aristocrat may say please or thanks to her majordomes and maids. And to the ears of such a refined audience, the mere idea that Anna may break such a rule was by far the most shocking thing that had been pronounced or done all morning. Even Kai, astounded, swiveled around partially, his gaze almost meeting hers.

Hans, seizing the opportunity, was the first one to intervene.

He pounced onto the servant, pinning him to the tiled floor and away from Merida. Horrified, Anna watched her betrothed wrestling against her once-most-trusted majordome, dapples of darkness and multicoloured light preventing her to get a clear view. In the mess of entangled limbs, Hans hastily redirected a gunshot to the ceiling, knocking down one of the chandeliers.

Pulling Rapunzel back with her, Mother Gothel stepped away from the falling object, stumbling against the altar. Flicking her thick braid of hair onto the older woman's face, the blonde managed to break free. As she struggled to catch her breath, her mind was already racing ahead. Adrenaline, dilating every of her veins and arteries, making every fair hair on her porcelain skin stand on end. Adrenaline, filling in the voidness between the shattered pieces inside her. She had no time to lose.

She ran around the fallen chandelier towards the door, in a ruffle of skirts that blossomed like a silver and viridian lily. She passed by Hans and Kai, who were a mess of battling limbs, fabrics, blood and sweat on the marble floor, the gun kicked way out of their reach. She passed by Merida, slumped to the floor, still in shock, her loose ivory robe a pool of moonlight around her. Rapunzel stopped by one of the guardian suits of armour, gripping the hilt of its sword with both hands to set it free. As she eventually managed, the heavy weapon slipped out of her fingers to loudly clatter against the floor. The Andersen tradesman swiftly reached out for the dropped blade. But his adversary, taking advantage of the diversion, caught his arm and swung him sliding towards the nearest pillar.

"Merida, this… this should help you."

The Highland woman jumped around at the murmur, to see Rapunzel handing the sword to her in a rather clumsy and awkward fashion, her deep green eyes avoiding her gaze.

"What makes you think I need your _help_ ," the redhead spat back, in a way that sounded nothing like a question.

But her fingers reflexively closed around the hilt of the sword, finding the chill hardness pressed against her palm. The blade was longer and heavier than most of those on the polearm weapons she was used to wielding, but it somehow felt natural, just like an extension of her arm as it came into motion. Years of watching mercenaries practice and begging for lessons had led her to be familiar with most common weapons in Extremesia. Years of listening to her father's teachings had told her that the important in the end was not the weapon itself, but the _motion_ , its balance, its rhythm and its fluidity. As she experimentally slashed the air before her, limbs, muscles and metal moved as one, breathed as one, lived as one. And then everything else ceased to matter.

That was what she had trained for, she realised. That was what she had been _fated_ to do. Her fate lived, right there, in the metal in her hands, in her free-flowing fiery locks against her shoulders, in the tiles brushed by her bare feet, in her evenly and steadily beating heart. That duel was hers to fight.

"Over here, Kai."

The light fell obliquely onto her, casting stripes of gold onto her crimson mane and shimmering reflections onto the side of her silver blade.

"Well, well. Such a… _resourceful_ choice of weapon."

He took a step back to draw the twin sword, clutched by the opposite suit of armour by the door. His eyes hardly left her as he held his weapon up high, seemingly mirroring her stance.

"Ladies first," he spoke with a derisive reverence.

And Merida was unleashed upon him, striking in a lightning of silver and ruby, slashing with unparalleled speed and force. The servant barely managed to block every blow, finding no opening to place an attack. Within mere seconds, she had him stepping back through the door and into the white corridor. Rapunzel watched, eyes gleaming, registering that most of the household had been amassed before the door, witnessing the altercation.

Behind her, Gothel's eyes scrutinised too, the faintest glint of interest sparking within their darkness. She knew her own asset better than anyone was inclined to think.

The Highland woman was as swift as a will-o'-the-wisp, as fierce as a mountain bear. Her adversary could only step back, losing ground like stalked prey. As she swung, parried and hit again, she danced a beautifully, brutally choreographed dance. Each stepping foot, each respiration was precisely timed to be lethal, swirling fury channeled into unbreakable focus and near-perfect control. Her blade grazed her opponent's doublet, causing him to stumble backward. As if wary of blocking, he did not even attempt to defend himself. Instead, he dodged. Her blade travelled over his shoulder, unbalanced by its own momentum. Utterly unprepared, she had to dash forwards not to stumble and crash, managing to stabilise herself after few agile steps away from him.

"Coward," she muttered under her breath, as she lunged toward Kai again.

Her fighting was a mortal choreography, but Kai was a good learner. A fast learner. As she was on him, he was prepared. He had seen enough to predict each of her moves, barely parry what he needed to and avoid the remainder. While she was tiring herself moving the weight of a sword too heavy for her, spending her energy and her boiling anger cutting hardly anything but thin air, he waited calmly and collectedly for her restless pace to wear down. Like a predator playing with its prey before devouring it.

But Rapunzel would not let it happen. Drawing her golden watch from her breast pocket, she expanded into its frying pan form and prepared to strike. Waiting for Kai's back to be exposed, she sprang forwards - and the back of her weapon met metal. Merida's heavy blade countered and set the clockwork pan flying through the air, brutally colliding with Anna's shoulder that had the misfortune to be nearby.

"This is _my_ fight," Merida snapped at the blonde, "mine _only_."

The majordome quickly sensed her focus dissipating and her anger turning into despair. His swift eyes searched for a weakness in her stance. He was vaguely aware of the sound of Hiccup loading his crossbow behind him, suddenly interrupted by a low scowl:

"Don't even _think_ about it."

Astrid immobilised the aviator by twisting his arm behind his back before he had time to shoot.

"You don't want Merida to have your head, do you?" she whispered as she reluctantly let go of him.

But both sparring fighters were upon each other again, the girl's full wrath unbridled upon the man. It all happened between them. The passionate and the measured. The intuitive and the analytical. The destruction and the discipline. The young and the old. The highborn and the servant. Fire and ice. Darkness and light, moving in such a blur one could hardly tell which was which.

The hunter and the prey.

His blade drew multiple parallel slices in the fine fabric of her nightgown, taking advantage of the mistakes caused by her tiredness and anger. The gingerhead lashed out in a series of deadly blows, seemingly forcing the traitor to a corner between the corridor's wall and a small decorative table that sat against it. Seizing her longsword with both hands, she raised above her head to bring it down at full momentum in a perfectly vertical arc upon her adversary.

The needle-sharp tip grazed his chest under his torn livery, drawing blood.

Then, he moved. At the exact planned moment. Executing a series of impressive backflips over the table, he supply landed on the other side on two feet and one hand, the other clutching the pommel of his weapon. Merida's blade, however, had found itself embedded into the piece of furniture's wood, breaking through the expensive layer of tortoise-shell that covered its smooth surface, next to a collection of exotic fruit tastefully arranged onto a fine porcelain plate, that had by incredible chance been left intact. As she struggled to draw it out, she saw her triumphant foe attack.

In a reckless way to buy time, she tossed the plate over, setting the fruit flying towards Kai. Unfazed, he cut through each makeshift projectile in mid-air with surgical precision, slicing fine crimson skin and ochre agrume pulp, sending fragments of rich pearly flesh and droplets of intense magenta juice around in a spectacle that was at once lethal and dreadfully aesthetic.

He pounced upon the table and onto her. The hilt of his sword collided with her sternum, making her drop to the floor, disarmed, the wind knocked out of her lungs. She hardly had any time to gasp before his boot rested over her stomach and his sword tip slashed through the air to rest upon her white throat.

In a fraction of a second, a torrent of incoherent thoughts flooded her mind. She would not die. He would not dare kill her when his task was to bring her back to Plant Alpha. Her pride was hurt. Thrown away to burn in hell would have been an understatement. There was hardly a graceful choreography that could even get her out of this situation. In terms of duelling, she was already vanquished.

A light flickered in her blue eyes. That of an animal being caught. That of a simple survival reflex. That of one who couldn't care about the fencing rules.

With all the strength she could muster, she reached upward to smash the ceramic plate in her hand against his wrist, the improvised move causing him to drop his blade right next to her head. Within instants, she was on her feet, holding him at swordpoint with the very weapon he had been wielding.

That was when she realised. That he was but a servant, and a traitor with that. That there was such a multitude of traitors, and such a multitude of servants out there, swarming like ants, just as dark and as unrecognisable. That unlike hers, his life meant nothing. That she had no need to stop her arm there, that she may rip through the fabric of his skin with the blade. That her dance had no necessity to be artificially stopped there, that her motion could flow on, that she could have her prey after hunting it down, that the powerful clockwork of the fates could simply tick onwards, even more potent and perfect as gravity fell upon her sword, as she…

Merida snapped out of her trance. Shapes moved quickly before her eyes. Before her, the majordome crashed to the ground, knocked unconscious by Hans's cane. Mother Gothel stood behind him, eyes wide with the shock of her defeat sealed by the duel's outcome. She was well aware of Astrid's rifle, Hiccup's crossbow and Tooth's knives threatening to be aimed at her. All she had left to do was what these fair ladies and noble gentlemen would do with their newfound toy.

Hiccup moved forward next to the young Andersen. The two gentlemen came to a silent agreement with a curt nod.

"So… it seems as though some decisions are to be taken," the pilot spoke up, the slightest hint of anxiety in his confident tone. "Most of us would agree, I believe, that it is best to keep the amount of… damage as low as possible. So here… is what I can suggest."

Avoiding Merida's eyes purposefully, he stepped forward to support Gothel's gaze. Brushing the back of his hair pensively, he stood unblinking, with polite yet stern determination, until she casually looked down in resigned acceptance for him to proceed with his terms:

"Madam, should you take the dirigible you came with, as well as its full crew, and leave the land flying back to Cornucopia impendingly, no harm will be done to you or your reputation. You may not make any stops or visits on the way... and I will personally make sure that your flight radiomessenger is inactive until you've crossed the ocean. When you are back in Centralesia, you are to spread no news as to what you've done here. What happened between the walls of this manor stays in this manor."

"You may fly the Stabbingtons' pavilion on your ship should they consent to it," Hans slipped in. "And should you not follow these conditions, just know that I have many powerful _friends_ around this continent that will inform and support me. "

"The Company of the Southern Isles will make sure the terms are well followed," Hiccup insisted, swallowing quietly. "Anything to add?"

"Please swear that you won't touch a hair of Rapunzel."

As she spoke, seemingly flatly and emotionlessly, her eyes fleetingly moved toward Eugene. The latter nodded, followed by Anna and Hans nearly in concern, followed by Hiccup.

"And I ask to know what will be done of Kai."

Anna's cordial expression fell as the traitor's name was mentioned. Still clutching her wounded shoulder, she turned to her sister, but both knew that the decision power was seldom women's. Hiccup and Hans briefly consulted each other again, before Hiccup answered:

"Kai is a servant of this household, and he will be treated as such following the Extremesian codes and regulations. I trust Mr. Andersen will have these enforced rightfully."

With these conclusive words, Hans called some of his servants and marched to escort the matron out. Rapunzel clutched her pocket watch against her braid on her chest, wide eyes staring at the blankness before her. Her heart was in her throat, pounding louder than the rest of the universe.

But her eyes remained desperately dry.

Attempting to patch up the situation as best as he could, Hiccup turned to Merida.

"Mer, I _know_ how that feels, I - "

"You know _nothing_ , Haddock," she spat, swallowing a broken sob. Then, tossing her sword at the man's feet, she swiveled around and ran away.

"Does she always do that?" Hiccup sighed to himself.

"Yes."

"No."

Astrid and Jack, on either side of him, had responded in synchronisation.

"Jack, you've hardly even met her," the blonde woman said with a point of disdain, shooting him a glance that meant it and a lot more.

"Jack, do you think you could… help out?" the inventor asked, annoyed but hopeful, while his foster sister scrutinised the two men's body language with keen interest.

"Could try," was the Drifter's response, with a playful wink that made Hiccup's heart instantly melt.

* * *

Long corridors, assorting portraits looking down at her severely, silently. Merida was pacing restlessly and erratically, as lost in her thoughts as she was, she had to admit, in the mansion. Not that she minded much. She needed space. She needed to think. When the hunter wasn't focused on her prey, her mind was blank, like a sky clear of any airships that could distract her from the dark gray clouds.

Hesitation. A mercenary's downfall. A mercenary should not hesitate. A mercenary should not have second thoughts on giving death. A mercenary should cut the threads of fate without remorse when it was asked. And she had failed. She had not been perfect. She had hesitated. She knew there was no way she could deny the truth. She was not perfect.

Perfection. A human's damnation and salvation all at once. Perfection that pushed her forward, always further, perfection from the core of her posture to the tip of her blade. Perfection that made her split the arrow, perfection in her connection to the weapons in her hands. She was not perfect. She was unworthy. She was spoiled. She had to practice, practice even more, until her muscles cried in pains and aches, her fingers bled and her feet were covered in blisters. Imperfection, opening gates to her soul through which anger and despair poured in, violently, irrevocably. Imperfection, burning her from the inside until all that was left was a charred carcass with broken clockworks and melted springs.

She would never be perfect. It was a battle against herself, and that pretentious phrasing only meant that she was going to lose whatever happened. She would never be brave enough, she would never be able to change that fate she had been constructed and programmed to follow. She would never be a worthy warrior, no matter how hard she tried.

A warrior. A true warrior was brave at heart. A true warrior wielded pure fury and controlled it. A true warrior was bestiality channeled into perfection. A true warrior was one that moved together with the forces of nature, her anger flowing through her like a divine wind as she moved and flowed. A true warrior was always part of the equilibrium with the great machinery of everything, carried by the pillars of tradition and order that supported the chessboard of it all. A true warrior was part of that balance and aware of that balance…

And clearly Merida was not. Which was why she had just been caught by complete surprise and scared out of her wits, letting out an utterly un-warrior-ly yelp.

" _Jack_! What are you doing here? I didn't realise you were…"

But even in her state of anger, she was too wary to reprimand him. Especially when his half-serious puppy eyes begged for her mercy, hanging upside down from the closest ceiling beam.

"Just, um, _hanging_ around?"

She stifled a laugh, reluctantly admitting he was quite a distraction from her dark thoughts. The silver-haired teenager gracefully jumped down to the chequered floor, obviously uncaring about gravity.

"You know, I was just wondering if you could… you know… give me some fencing lessons? I mean, what you did out there was…"

"Jack, just… I need to be alone, all right?" she said, doing her best not to lash out at him.

"I'll try again later then."

She hardly cared to disagree as he disappeared from her field of view. She continued her itinerary through the empty room…

"So, um, hey?"

Merida looked up to see him walking along the very next wooden beam, his trademark smirk plastered over his porcelain traits. So that was his definition of _later_. At that point, she judged she entirely deserved her foot in that lean stomach of his, and that it would provide her with great pleasure. Seemingly ignoring the lethal glare she gave him, he landed before her in an identical fashion.

"Merida, I was wondering if you'd like to beat me down with a stick to let off some steam while, you know, I get to learn something about sparring?"

How could the scoundrel exactly phrase the desires that had crossed her mind? A slight smile suddenly illuminated her freckled face.

" _Now_ we're talking, Frost."

* * *

Hiccup sat in the central dark green armchair, one hand casually on the patterned armrest while his other elbow was popped up on his knee, his calloused fingers mechanically playing with the small braids in his auburn hair. His prosthetic foot was folded over the knee of his valid leg, completing a posture that was carefully studied to look calm and collected, while his back muscles were imperceptibly trembling with tension.

It did not help that Jack was half-sitting, half-sprawling across his armrest, clearly enjoying the intrusion to the older man's personal space. Astrid stood by the other side of the chair, upright and cross-armed, the wedge of her knee-high boot rhythmically tapping the carpeted floor. She stole repeated short glances towards Jack, while the inventor's forest eyes slowly scanned the filled boudoir around him. According to Elsa, Anna and Hans were at supper debating the laws and conventions concerning the slaves and servants employed by the Company of the Southern Isles, but the remainder of the Salon was intently listening to his words.

"This has happened once this morning, and this will happen again," he spoke quietly, but loud enough for the whole assistance to hear him. "Many parties are after us. Many are after you, Rapunzel. Your father wants you back, and any group that counts you on their side gain an extremely valuable asset in the balance of… things."

The blonde lowered her gaze to avoid his eyes. Hiccup swallowed, wincing at his own cringe-worthy wording. His clammy palm pressed slightly harder onto the armrest, creasing the geometrically embroidered fabric. He wished he had paid more attention on the formal functions his father had forced him to attend. He took in a deep breath before continuing.

"And you're not the only one, Rapunzel. Many of us are... valuable, in more ways than one. This is why you're all here, after all. This is why we make up the Salon of Extraordinary Outcasts, thanks to the tasteful choice of Lady Anna. Each of us, so peculiar, so talented, so _unique_. A rare piece for a sophisticated collection. But here's the point. If one of us is threatened in any way, just as happened this morning, all of us will be at risk. Anything that affects one of us affects all of us. We can't act like we're special _curiosities_ idling sitting, wondering what's for supper and showing off our peculiar talents and sumptuous outfits. Not when there's a war raging outside, her metal nails scraping at our door. Not when there's a war barely contained _inside_ , dividing us and tearing us apart slowly. Not when we're all pieces of an engine that is way beyond us, way larger and more powerful. An engine ruling for the rise and fall of a continent. An engine, like silent and gigantic puppeteer, that pulls all the strings of all our fates that have become inherently _entangled_. A mechanism where a _single_ gear jamming or a single string breaking means the demise of it all. And I will not allow that to happen."

He made a brief pause, evaluating the impact of his words. The speech had become more natural as it flowed by, almost as intuitive as breathing and walking, as if the hereditary leadership skills buried so deeply within him, as his father had always remarked with disappointment, had slowly awakened at the time he needed them most.

"And that is why I called for this crisis meeting. Decisions are to be taken, and they have to be taken by all of us, together. From now on, we are a group. From now on, we stand as one and march as one. The Drifters and the colonists, those members of the Company of the Southern Isles and those allegiant to Corona & Sons, the base-born and the aristocrats, the maidens and the gentlemen. We haven't chosen to be together; it has been imposed onto us by the situation, and we have to stick together whether we like it or not. Differences and conflicts will arise, but choices will be made from _agreements_."

Or _compromises_ , he reflected to himself, but _agreements_ sounded ever so slightly less worse. He shifted on his seat to lean forwards toward his audience, both elbows resting on his knees and hands supporting his solemn chin.

"We have the funds, we have the skills, and we have the manpower. All we need is agreement. And _this_ is what is going to make us _matter_. Not as a simple reactionary entity, but as an _action_ force. A power to be reckoned with. A new authority on the chessboard. A new player in the game."

Reclining into the dark green back of the chair, almost matching the rich damask of his waistcoat, Hiccup listened to the silence in his wake. Time was needed for the words to make their ways through the mechanisms of dubitative minds. The first reaction would be the one to catalyse everything... or ruin all his efforts.

"I'm already _in_ the game, Haddock," Merida snickered, shaking her ginger locks energetically. "What are we playing next?"

The aviator almost let out a sigh of relief, discreetly turning towards Jack, who he suspected was the one to thank. The silver-haired teenager's chill fingers brushed his sleeve over his forearm, almost as if by accident, sparking more affection than a thousand words could have. Trying his best to conceal his contentment, he addressed a curt grateful nod to the young Highland woman.

"Sandy, Jack and I could say the same," Tooth spoke up. "We joined forces for survival at that game… and we stay for the fun."

Her silent companion approved with a heavy-lidded blink, as curious bourgeois glances considered the Drifter couple.

"By this point, you have enough manpower to kill us if we don't side with you, so… you leave us no choice." Eugene pointed out wittily. "Count Punzie and me in."

The blonde seemed too lost in her own thoughts to confirm or deny. She leaned slightly onto her fiancé's shoulder, the lime green taffetas of his doublet matching the flowy silks of her skirts in tone, her eyes fixating a horizon far beyond the walls of the boudoir.

"Milady Elsa?" Hiccup enquired gently.

The quiet aristocrat crossed her slender legs under the thin fabric of her empire gown, and then their eyes met. Hiccup shivered slightly in his seat, caught aback by his own reflection in the mirror of her blue orbs. Reluctance, mistrust and yet, ardent curiosity. And secrets - secrets crucial to their very survival, as well as secrets that even their budding group would not want to know. They were more alike than he had ever realised.

"Mr. Haddock," the blonde finally said, breaking their meaningful silence, "I am aware that my sister would not greatly approve of her brand new Salon being turned into your… _League_. We have known the rest of you for such a short time, and forming such an unconditional alliance at this point is a rash and unwise action. I cannot say that colonists and Drifters together sounds like a coherent plan. I hold no proof that this is not a ploy for you to get hold of Hans, as an heir to the Company of the Southern Isles, or even of my most beloved Anna. And as such, I cannot grant you the entirety of my trust."

"Milady, let me-" the young pilot gasped between tight lips, whitened by intense focus.

"However, I am also aware that we are nothing without your League, and that your League means nothing without us. This is why I'm willing to experiment. This is why I, in the name of Mr. Andersen and both Baronesses of Arendelle, ask for your support and protection, in exchange for whatever humble means and information we can provide you with."

 _Humble means_ that started with the gorgeous mansion they were all sitting in. Well, that was better than expected. What Hiccup had in mind had been the precious facts about Rapunzel's surprising abilities, but whatever near-unlimited wealth the Company of the Southern Isles had to offer wasn't too awful either. He also noted in a corner of his mind that _League_ was a rather apt name.

"What I ask for, however, Mr. Haddock." Elsa continued, "is that this group should aim to achieve a goal that would… not be detrimental to any of us. This means - not a victory for the Coronas, or for the Company, or for the raider tribes… but a compromise. A truce. A truce such that parents can be reunited with their children," she glanced to Merida and to Rapunzel, "and such that betrothed pairs can be happily married," she nodded bitterly toward Flynn, while it was clear she also had her sibling in mind. "This might not have been the honour and glory you'd been hoping for… but this is the agreement I'm asking for."

"So… you want to stop a war," Mr. Fitzherbert echoed before anyone else had time to react. "This means either corrupting every party, or blackmailing every party, or robbing them of all their weaponry and equipment, or playing their game and heading off the battlefront… Corruption wouldn't work, since all the funds we have is _from_ them. Blackmailing doesn't make any sense, seeing who the members of the League are. Robbing… I could definitely do this - I wouldn't mind the castles and all - but that isn't at all realistic with the time scale we're talking about. This only leaves us one possibility. Take part in a war. And how many are we? Thirteen - minus Kai who just defected? Don't you think we need… an army for that?"

The Corona tradesman knew to be blunt and realistic when the situation was appropriate, and Hiccup was admiring and thankful about it, even though it did not particularly help. At least he would not need to formulate a response in these parabolic roundabout ways the bourgeois appreciated so dearly.

"Thank you for bringing it up. This is what Jack and I have been… debating this afternoon."

Astrid shifted a suspicious blonde brow at that. The Drifter decided to ignore it as he spoke up:

"Who would want an army when we have… a _people_?"

Muffled gasps seized the newly formed alliance, as realisation dawned upon their minds. It was inconceivable. And at once, it seemed like the most obvious solution.

"My people have dwindled in numbers - but we are still strong enough to be reckoned with. Raiding trains and airships from the Company, Corona, Berk Steel or Weseltons is what we do for a living. But that isn't all. Shortly before war broke out, an alliance was what we were working on. An alliance against those colonists chasing us out of our lands, I must add. But knowing my people, and knowing the other tribes, with all the present mess it's likely that our alliance still stands. This means there's a few hundred, if not a few thousand of us out there, looking for a cause to stand for and for a few zeppelins to take down for the fun of it."

"But… seeing what you did last time… wouldn't they _shoot you on sight_ if you tried to pay them a visit to talk to them?" Astrid pointed out.

"They… would. And the same would probably happen if Hiccup or Tooth and Sandy were sent as envoys. Drago isn't too fond of the four of us. But I believe he'd give a chance to someone new, provided he finds advantages out of it."

"I'm afraid my past _dealings_ with Drago puts me in the same box as you four…" Flynn remarked disappointedly.

Hiccup vaguely wondered what kind of trick the tradesman could have pulled off against the Drifter chief, but that hardly surprised him given Eugene's less-than-irreproachable reputation.

"Then maybe I could help…" Rapunzel softly suggested.

"That wouldn't work," Tooth intervened. "You're officially Mr. Corona's only daughter. You're too precious. They'd be too tempted to put a ransom on your head… The same goes for you, Merida, and for Hans, and even Elsa. As heirs of some of the most prominent fortunes on the continent, I doubt it would be safe for us to send you."

"For the sake of the survival of everyone here, I'd rather _not_ go," Astrid added, to which Jack and Hiccup shared a relieved glance.

Once again, the brunette's eyes scanned the room, looking for a possible candidate amongst the League. Everyone he around had been ruled out. He considered the possibility of still asking Elsa, but…

"... Fine. I'll go," Anna's voice came from the doorsill she was casually leaning against, a thin woollen scarf draped around her freckled shoulders.

* * *

Extremesian sunsets fell quickly. The last warm rays of sunlight hardly lingered, only briefly gracing the cotton buds with an ephemeral quasi-incandescent amber glow. Each parallel row of the plantation cast a fast-growing shadow upon its neighbours, the advancing darkness specked with splodges of warm light. Hans stood tall beyond the fields, the servants of his household sternly lined up behind him. Before his graceful silhouette, the young man's shadow cast upon his bare back, Kai kneeled upon the earthy ground, hands tied behind his back, waiting for the punishment that a traitor deserved.

Someone gave Hans a sabre, as was customary. The gentleman's gloved hand wrapped around the leather-covered hilt, as he seemed to examine it pensively. The blade was sharp enough to cleanly slice through both the man's wrists and sever them from his arm, just as was the predicated treatment in… the case at _hand_ \- literally. The dark joke slightly echoed in Hans's mind as a pair of servants came with a wooden plank and positioned the traitor's tied hands onto it. Mr. Andersen gestured for them to step back before he approached Kai.

Heavy drops of sweat rolled down the man's parched skin. Resignation had cleared out the panic in his mind. He had been expecting this fate since the superb Elinor DunBroch had approached him, since he had accepted to follow her in exchange for payment and for adventure. He had always feared that one may not be able to change their fate, especially when one was a mere servant. Thoughts of gentle Anna and fair Elsa clouded the back of his mind. But they were aristocrats, born with an ornate silver spoon on their delicate tongues, and he would never be part of their world.

The touch of Hans's gloved fingers upon his was almost considerate. And then, he heard the blade whistle through the air.

He hardly had time to register the change at once. First was the chillness between his thumbs. He still had thumbs. He still had _hands_. And while the memory of the rope's harsh bite onto his skin was still present, his wrists were _free_. In shock, he turned around to meet the eyes of the forgiving gentleman who had sliced off his ties instead of punishing him. And the dreamy green orbs, almost luminous in the blinding sunset backlighting, appeared sincere. Understanding. Magnanimous.

Maybe after all, fate _could_ be changed.

"Go," Mr. Andersen breathed out, just loud enough for the rest of the assistance to be able to hear.

The released man's eyes were suddenly full of tears, overwhelmed by the absolute generosity of his master, his ginger hair crowned in crepuscular sunlight. In the way he had been taught to since to since the youngest age, he bowed, his creased forehead meeting the dirt in front of his newfound idol's feet. But he would not waste more of the virtuous man's time. Within seconds, he was on his feet, dashing away towards his freedom, running through the semi-darkness of the woods, without turning back.

He hardly even heard the gunshot.

A small indigo puff of constellite powder danced in the twilight. Hans held his flintlock pistol straight before him, standing perfectly still, unflinching. The shot had impacted his prey in the back of his head and right between his two eyes. Hans was glad to see his aim continued to be near-perfect.

One had to be an idiot, rules or not, to miss such an opportunity of setting an unforgettable precedent for all of his servants, while avoiding some useless ugly maiming and definitively taking out a skilled and dangerous traitor. A satisfied light flickered in his emotionless emerald eyes as he slid the weapon back into its holster.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Merida calls Hiccup 'Haddock' with some disdain because of the traditional rivalry between her familial clan and his. This is supposed to mirror the historical/canon tension between the Scottish and the Viking. Also, I totally think that Merida and Ygritte are twins and that Hiccup is a Targaryen bastard who ends up on the wall training dragons. By the way, this basically closes the whole Gothel ark. This is the last time we'll see her, even though she won't be completely idle offscreen… I won't say more.**

 **Author's mistake of the day: it occurred to me recently that there's a real-life place called Providence. It is totally an oversight from my part that such a toponym appears in AU - the in-universe Providence has nothing to do with the IRL one, this is just because I'm crap at US geography.**

 **Announcement: I was planning to go back to regular updating, but I don't know how that will go. Expect some more this month at least? Hey, it takes me time to come up with something this long…**

 **Another Announcement: During that hiatus, I did ome sketches of the story's protagonists in AU. You can check them out on my DA account (same username: eliazeravenfeather). My drawing skills are far from stellar, but yeah – this gives some idea of their outfits.**

 **Yet Another Announcement: Talking about drawings, I also have some concept arts/teasers/covers for some upcoming fics of mine. I know, I said I wouldn't do that to focus on finishing this. Feel free to kill me. Anyway, more info on them will soon be on my profile, hopefully.**

 **And Another Effing Announcement: (while we're at it) if someone had free time and wants to check my grammar and stuff, you're still very welcome! I will thank you with lots of love and publicity – and feedback/suggestions on your writing if you want, but I already have a busy beta-reading schedule on top of my busy real life. Feel free to message me! R &R, F&F, stay awesome xx**


	22. Heart of Ice

**I know, I know, I'm so bad at regular updating. But at least I'm still alive…?**

 **Guest: Yeah, I'm silly… I guess you could call that a coincidence. Thanks for sticking around and reviewing!**

 **Other thing for this chapter - the Beast, Alphen, stands for both Drago's Bewilderbeast and Valka's in this story… Don't worry, it will soon make sense.**

 **Chapter 22, in which Anna has a violet fan and we finally get to meet Cloudjumper.**

 **TW: death, mentions of discrimination, bridge-dropping**

* * *

 _If a man wants nothing and needs nothing, then there is no way to make an ally out of him. Or so the fairy tales advise, back home, in Arendelle. Should Drago desire nothing, how can we strike an agreement? How can we even leave this place alive?_

Rebellious strawberry blonde and sparser silver strands, hanging loose from a pair of twin braids, floated in the breeze from Toothless's helices. Anna furtively glanced back at Hiccup through the glass of the cockpit, earning a reassuring nod. She managed a weak grin in return. Had the glider even approached the Drifter camp, it would most likely have been taken down on sight, so that Anna had to be dropped off far away enough from the meeting place and make the rest of the way on foot. Amidst the grassy flatness, gently rippled by the passing winds, stood the pyramids in the distance, within a few minutes' walk.

 _If the man, however, has a reindeer, and the reindeer desires a carrot, then give the reindeer a carrot, and the man will follow you to the end of the world._

Arendelle had truly silly legends, Anna reflected. But it seemed silly enough to work. She had to find out what the Drifters loved most, what they wanted most, and then she would own them. She had to extract the information from Drago at all costs. She was the only hope they had. And the thought, she had to admit, flattered her prideful ego. Decisively, she walked ahead, pulling up her thick sky blue cotton skirt and the finer pastel azure and ivory veil layers underneath that ruffled against the grass blades. The sturdy walking boots, borrowed from her sister, crushed the meadow without elegance but with efficiency. At least, Anna was a fast walker.

The Itzan site was a peculiar place, those of Anna's entourage would have called _picturesque_ , for it was a ruin upon a ruin. It had been abandoned centuries even before the colonists had set foot in Eastern Extremesia, such that eroded pyramids, half-collapsed columns and stone statues whose features had been claimed by the time and lichen were the only guardians of a mostly forgotten past. When the Centralesian cartographers and gold-diggers had stumbled upon the site again and noted its unusual aesthetics, many a decade later, had blossomed the idea that it could make a good amusement park for the growing settler population. Cardboard palaces, roller coasters and Ferris wheels had sprouted from the ground, cheerfully and colourfully amongst the exotic backdrop of the ancient temples. The fashion, however, lasted hardly more than a decade. Wealthy colonists always quickly got interested and disinterested even more swiftly. The owner had been unable to sell the affair away, resulting on its return to silence and abandonment after his bankruptcy.

As Anna climbed up the steps of the central square pyramid, flanked by stone feathered snakes as rails, rusted swings quietly squeaked behind her, sending a shiver down her spine. Atop the edifice, a small carrousel, that could hardly ever have felt more out of place, seemed to revolve slowly in the wind with a faint metallic squeak. Its pastel paintings over their milky background, almost whimsically grotesque mimes of the native Extremesians tribal art style, looked weathered, faded and partly fallen off, revealing rough patches of rusted iron. Smiling horses on spiralling golden vertical bars stood in their bizarre immobility, the identical round light-bulbs regularly spaced around the bottom edge of the scalloped roof above them seeming dead and empty.

The baroness stepped onto the merry-go-round, briefly glancing upwards to the ceiling to see what looked like a painted Centralesian interpretation of a circular native calendar, structured in concentric rings, each filled in mysterious angular glyphs. With some apprehension, she spotted the miniature version of a diligence where the meeting was planned to happen in complete intimacy, its wooden frame painted in forest green with golden edges. It was such a surprising place for Drago to choose, Anna thought, for she could hardly imagine the bulky, tawny-skinned, scarred raider sitting inside a cramped carrousel cabin in an abandoned theme park. She caught herself being bemused at the thought, and the itchy tingles of nervousness were back. Her clammy fingers clung to her closed magenta fan desperately. Astrid may have had her axe, Tooth her knives and Merida her bow, but all Anna was the only one there and all she could hold up to protect herself was her _fan_. The only weapon a proper _lady_ could ever wield. One of delicate wooden spokes, lavishly embroidered fabric, carefreely graceful courtesy and concealed cunning negotiation. The perfect weapon for the situation. Taking a deep breath, Anna pulled the tiny fiacre's door open.

"Before you ask, milady, I am the leader of the Huacans and the Itzans. They dealt with Drago, and I delegate for them."

Anna's eyes took some time to get used to the relative obscurity. A golden sunbeam drifted inside through the small window. The worn leather bench seats on either side were surprisingly comfortable, and a simple circular table, made of painted metal, was between her and her interlocutor. The person across her, even though garbed in the patchwork fashion of the Drifters, the disparate fabrics adorned in feathers, sea shells, glass beads and other trinkets, had the bearing and demeanor of one who knew how to be a lady. Her skin was tanned by years under the harsh tropical sun, but her pale brown curls and her emerald glare betrayed her Centralesian birth. Those large green eyes weren't entirely unfamiliar to Anna, as a matter of fact…

"They call you the Valkyrie, madam," Anna guessed, remembering Jack's words.

And the Drifter woman carefully chose to behave as a lady, it must be to ensure that Anna regarded her as no less than an equal, not as a savage.

"Indeed. And you are?"

"Baroness Anna of Arendelle. Delighted to finally meet you."

She held out a lace-gloved hand, that the Valkyrie curtly shook. Anna could feel the roughness of the calluses through the thin fabric. They had briefly been in contact via radiomessage through Hans, but she had had no idea that the Drifter representative would _not_ be Drago. If her goal was to get to know _who_ the person she was trying to convince was, then it definitely _could_ have started better.

"So, how did they… deal with Drago?"

"After the Guardian leader and those allies of yours had dropped him off the flank of the Pyramid of the Moon, the mob caught him and carried on his ritual sacrifice in place for the Feathered Snake's. The Beast would have been his successor, but he did not have the right stuff of a leader. So I challenged him to a ceremonial duel."

Casually resting against the woman's leg where a lady would have had an umbrella or a lace parasol was what appeared as a staff, decorated with crimson feathers. One of its ends curved back not unlike Jack's weapon, while the other carried a simple obsidian point, the sanded surfaces shining weakly in the relative obscurity, the edges bearing the slightest hint of savage ruggedness in their razor sharp lethality. The slightest hint of the merciless warrior behind the manners of a lady. The slightest warning that one wrong move, one single misplaced word could send that sharpened extremity straight through Anna's freckled throat.

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Anna obliged to formulating a comment.

"May I infer the… Beast is no longer a threat, then?"

The Valkyrie's piercing glance suddenly felt back onto her, as if she had been lost in the deep jungle of her thoughts. A thin wrinkle creased her forehead, and a shadow seemed to fleetingly glide past her eyes.

 _One day earlier_

Tropical rains were wild and bestial, barging past in the blink of an eye and storming through the land just as fast. Tlaloc's waters, in their full majestic and powerful verticality, swelled from the endless sea of clouds above, purifying the land and leaving it soaked to the bone. The lush green of the rainforest that crested over the horizon line all around the religious site carried an eerily oversaturated glow, each leaf swelling plump and replenished as the raindrops relentlessly crashed down. The humidity in the air was barely breathable, thick with that smothering scent of earth, of life, almost entirely washing away the odours of sweat, blood and ashes from the ceremonial combat the crowd was tensely watching.

The Valkyrie had retreated to her own vertical stone loop, once again rubbing the tip of her spear against the flaming tar that covered it. Even with this incandescent resin layer, the flames that coated their blades hardly stood a chance against the fully unleashed violent rain. The fight had to be regularly paused for both adversaries to set their weapons ablaze again, much to the watchers' irritation. The heavy weight of her feather-studded brightly painted mask, breastplate and belt accentuated the ache in her weary limbs. She winced at the throbbing pain from the cut her enemy had inflicted at her bare abdomen. Across the dueling area, the Beast stood by his identically fiery ring, flames licking the obsidian of his two-handed sword. She wouldn't be able to hold on for very much longer. She would have to end it quickly, and she knew it. She knew it too well. She knew _him_ all too well.

The regular percussion of ceremonial drums, the entranced clamour, the heavy pulsation of expectant respirations, the rhythmic thundering of heartbeats… all ushering them forward, back onto the stone battling alley. For interrupting this reenactment of the flaming course of the suns across their celestial paths would have been a sacrilege.

The Valkyrie was the first one to strike. Grabbing her spear by the end of the crooked butt, she launched it flying forward, its sculpted wood shaken by a lethal oscillation as it sliced the air towards its target. The Beast barely managed to block the obsidian tip with his metallic arm protection, but his adversary caught her weapon back with ease. She spun the javelin between her hands in rapid circles, fiercely blocking each of her enemy's blows. Sparks were but fleeting in the rainy air. Powerful arcs of ephemeral orange light slashed through the damp grayness as the blazing staff swung around with agility and the flaming sword cut down with force. The stark white, emerald green, garish gold and blood red painted details of their wooden masks, rendered dull by the colourless lighting, were tarnished in trails of soot where the flames had brushed them too closely. A brutal aura of white enveloped their lithe limbs were a million droplets collided with patches of bare skin, pouring along the canals of salient veins and pale scars. Calloused bare feet moved with precision and speed, leaving short-lived footsteps on the irregular stony ground that the rain had converted to an immense mirror, orbs of fire dancing over the blurred background like colliding asteroids in a moonless sky.

Before the audience knew, Alphen was gaining ground over his adversary. An impact of his sword against her breastplate sent her sliding backwards onto the slippery floor. She dug the blunt end of her weapon into a crack in the stone not to violently collide with the blazing stone ring just behind her. The flames caught onto the whirling feathers that adorned her sleeves, in a grim caricature of a phoenix wing that she hurriedly smothered into the puddle beneath her feet. The rain still fell onto her skin like a thousand knives, rendering the burns so painful they felt almost numb. Silence roared past her wary ears as the tempest stormed on. She steadied her stance in an asymmetric crouch, one leg extended and one hand holding her weapon nearly vertically. Careful not to slip as he advanced, the Beast made his way towards his unmoving opponent, the angular grimace of his mask remaining expressionless.

Within a heartbeat, water met fire, and sparks, droplets and smoke traced a brutal arc between the two fighters. Alphen realised that the female Drifter had swung the tip of her spear around on the surface of the puddle at her feet, temporarily blinding him. But he had no time to lose; he lifted his blade over his head with both hands and cut down. The curtain of smoke subsided in seconds. And the Beast looked up to see the Valkyrie staring down in mid-air, her flexible wooden spear briefly vibrating as it was employed as a jumping pole. The toned curve of her bare back seemed to hover above him for an infinitesimal eternity, and then the balls of her feet rebounded off the flat of his blade with agility, causing him to drop his weapon. A collective stupor fell over the watching crowd.

Alphen stumbled to his knees as his challenger's wiry legs locked around his powerful neck. Splashes of crimson dripped from her wounds onto his face, but the rain quickly washed them away. She elastically landed behind his back, using her spear to hold him in a firm chokehold.

Second by second as they ticked by, raindrop by raindrop as they fell by, each one of the Beast's breaths drew more painful and ragged. His fingers desperately clutched the sharp flaming stones that studded the spear near its extremity, attempting to divert it from his throat, to no avail but covering his massive knuckles in cuts and burns.

To end the duel did not require the slaying of one of the participants. Forfeit was sufficient, as the audience knew just as well as the two combatants. But they knew each other too well, too.

Raindrop by raindrop the storm flew by, and the Valkyrie knew it too well. Only then, however, did she realise her mistake.

The wood of her staff snapped like a mere twig between Alphen's hands. The sheer force released in the fracture sent the female combatant backwards, both shattered halves of her weapon still in her hands. She regained her footing, hardly caring to brush the mud off her limbs, and tossed the pointed end of her javelin towards the Beast. He deflected it just in time with his elbow, causing it to land, extinguished, in a nearby puddle. With nothing but the broken crook of of her weapon in hand, the Valkyrie readied to deliver a savage roundhouse kick, nearly snapping off one of the decorative wooden tusks off her adversary's mask. The audience let out a choked gasp. In the fluid violence of her motion, the smaller duellist hardly recorded the grasp of a colossal hand onto her ankle, altering her foot's trajectory and causing her to lose her balance, knocked over by her own momentum. Before she even hit the ground, Alphen sent her sliding by her leg, onto the pillar carrying her flaming stone circle.

Her body was too depleted of air to scream out her silent agony. A brutal knee collided with her stomach, reviving the pain of her gaping wound. An iron fist caught her ribs just below her breastplate with a sickening crunch. A mighty grip lifted her by her neck and pinned her against the vertical stone loop, the flames immediately licking at the back of her headdress and soaked plaits. His heated breath ghosted against her parched lips, but she could barely note it in the surrounding heat. Rainwater, sweat and blood trickled down her face beneath her mask, along with some tears too, maybe, but those tasted just as bitter. The sharp tips of his tusks prickled the base of her clavicle, opening umpteenth cuts that already started to feel numb. His gigantic hands could easily squash her skull or break her spine. Her flame would go out in a matter of seconds. She was done for… she should forfeit, and she knew it.

If the gods of the suns, the winds and the rains had any sense of pathetic fallacy, then surely deafening thunder would have shattered the sky. If these deities, that men worshipped with their offerings of their gold, their feathers and their blood, even had an ounce of attention for those puny creatures who lived their lives and fought their battles for them, then probably lightning beams would have impregnated the clouds with light brighter than that of the sun itself, wild enough to detract the watchers' attention for the lousy imitation of the solar course that happened on the wet ground before their eyes.

But the gods were either cold and uncaring, or terrible at drama. And therefore all that crashed onto the crowd was silence and more rain. Icy, blind white rain.

As the tension imploded past its climax, just as silently, they saw the Valkyrie on her scarred knees, broken and immobile, with the stump of a shattered wooden crook in her hardly even closed fist.

As the quietness returned, fertile and sudden, they saw the Beast, covered in his blood and hers, the one just as red as the other, and in water, too much water, the rest of the crook of his opponent's weapon still locked against the massive nape of his neck where she had desperately attempted to grab him. One of his wooden tusks was missing, broken off in grotesque asymmetry. It was sticking out of his mask at a bizarre angle, deeply buried in the orifice where his right eye used to be.

And raindrop by raindrop as the sky blindly rained by, the water washed the blood, sweat and tears away from the wounds of the dead and the living, turning the particles of soot into mud. When the storm finally subsided, the earth and the ashes would be soldered into one, as hard as stone.

* * *

"The Beast now belongs to the past," the Valkyrie finally spoke, emotionlessly.

Anna sensed that her voice almost broke, just like the bulk of an iceberg lurking beneath the surface.

"But this isn't why you've asked to meet me," the warrior continued. "So why don't you tell me what it is you beg for?"

"As we all know, a war has broken out, and you are at the head of a force that is underestimated, but immense. What we ask for is your support."

The Drifter had a sad smile at that, contemplating the younger woman's innocent idealism.

"What makes you think that Huacans, Itzans and Guardians are for sale? With all that you own to buy yourself lace fans and silk ribbons, you should probably be able to afford mercenaries such as the Stabbingtons or even the McGuffins and the DunBrochs…"

"But we came to ask for you, because you are more valuable than all of them combined. You are superior in numbers and in knowledge of this land, and we can provide for the rest."

"Do you really think that flattery will lead you somewhere, milady? You have much yet to learn, dear child. I am surprised _this_ is the best whichever powerful clan you are part of chose to talk to me."

The Valkyrie leaned forward in her seat as she spoke, slightly wincing at the pain of her fresh injuries. Anna resisted the urge to nervously chew at her strand of white hair, cringing at the bitter taste of her hurt pride. Her eyes wandered along the pale web of scars on the older woman's cheeks, timidly meeting the green glare again, that oh-so-recognisable green glare…

"What are you even hoping to offer in exchange to our tribe?" the Valkyrie continued imperturbable. "Colonists have invaded and destroyed our land, taken many a life of our children with the mysterious weapons and the strange illnesses they brought with them. Even the survivors are forced to inhuman labour in your constellite and gold mines, and those that manage to escape are condemned to live off raiding and robbery, hiding in the wilderness of the rainforest, while the likes of _you_ sip tea out of fine white cups shipped straight off from Porcelanie. Do you honestly think that I and my people will accept anything from _you_?"

Each word, each accusation sunk like a knife through her frail skin, but Anna too started to feel the numbness of her toughening soul. She barely noticed how _cold-hearted_ she was becoming… it was necessary for her task. She could not help smirking at the blocks of information roaming freely inside her head, quickly forming scraps of a plan…

* * *

"This is all we can offer for your tribe," the young aristocrat finished, her teal eyes bright with excitement as her interlocutor nodded expressionlessly. "As for yourself, Madam…"

Anna pensively fingered at the radiomessenger hanging off her belt, before bringing it to her lips to deliver her message:

"Hiccup, if you could come from over there, there is somewhat who would very much like to see you."

* * *

Clouds flew and changed fast as the hours went by, lazy and languid, their ever-flat surfaces gliding freely on the bottom of the sky as if on an ice rink. Their shapes flowed fleetingly and ceaselessly, sometimes akin to prideful white dragons, others reminiscent of mysterious hazy faces, never entirely distinguishable, but always mysteriously familiar. Down below, just as sheep-like, trees herded in expectant immobility, sipping in the sunny azure and the carefree winds. In the near-ethereal frontier between the immensity of green and the immensity of blue, rare passing airships drifted by, their spinning helices and flapping tailfins humming in the early afternoon quietness.

So many years had passed, so many clouds had flown over the land, sprinkling snowy silver onto the Valkyrie's hair, raining their way through the riggles of her newly formed wrinkles.

So many years had passed, but a mother never forgot.

And then, time seemed to have stopped abruptly. Maybe there was a way to stop the grand clockwork of things, after all… but Hiccup and the Drifter leader hardly seemed to mind. Each breath they inhaled, each step taken side by side seemed out of time, almost surreal. After years of separation, so much was awaiting to be said, so much that they had little notion of where to start. They exchanged words about everything and nothing, about the new spear the Valkyrie had crafted in the morning to replace the one broken in her duel, about the new heat-resistant alloy Hiccup had been working on for his turbine blades, about the rearrangements to the Huacan camp to accommodate the Guardians, about Berk Steel's recent contracts with the DunBroch clan. In between attempts to conversation, the pair walked side by side in the sunny quietness, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other's company.

The large gray iguana perched on the Drifter's shoulder suddenly snapped out of its torpor to reach out for an insect with its ridiculously long tongue. Said insect happened to be fluttering around Hiccup's nose, causing the young man to flinch at the contact of the reptile's pink appendage. The Valkyrie's face lit up with a fond smile at his puzzled expression. Seeming vaguely offended by Hiccup's reaction, the reptile rolled both of his eyes in bizarre asynchrony, before drifting back into his cold-blooded doze.

"He likes you," she giggled softly, encouragingly taking his hand to have him pet the animal's scaly snout.

"Hiccup, meet my close friend, Cloudjumper. Cloudjumper, this is Hiccup, my…"

She abruptly stopped herself, the crucial word choked in a silent whirlwind of emotion.

"I like him too," Hiccup whispered after a curt pause.

Near-identical dark emerald eyes met for a fraction of a second, then the aviator turned his gaze to the luxuriant green all around them. Their raised stone path, cutting straight through the grassy land, was covered by an iron arbour, its vertical iron lines subtly flowing into an art nouveau crisscross of arcs above their heads, all covered in a rough layer of dark maroon oxyde. The pergola was heavy with overflowing vegetation, smaller branches filling in the light space between the larger, cryptically textured leaves. Moss-covered liana and helicoidal tendrils of gentle green spiralled down from overhead, along with tiny wild orchids and other parasitic blossoms, saturated with they musky scent of rainforest.

The dusty golden light that filtered through the leaves delicately dappled the Valkyrie's face warm splodges, erratically highlighting her proud cheekbones and her pointy chin, roughly underlining the crisscross of white scars across the tawny skin. A ceremonial plastron adorned her chest and covered her slender shoulders, the rusty metal chains connecting motley pieces of carved wood, green glass, dented gold and iron, lapis-lazuli and jade together, the mismatched objects adorned with colourful ribbons, buffeting feathers dangling off the bottom edge, echoing the garishly painted seashells that studded her large leather belt. A large iguana sloughed skin was asymmetrically wrapped around her waist, the hem barely brushing the intricately sculpted bracelets at her ankles. Around her toned stomach, as well as one forearm and one knee, pale bandages seemed to have been recently wrapped, in a rushed but still efficient manner. From under the fabric. mossy herbal mixtures had been smeared over her injuries, staining the bandages with a peculiar mixture of green and red. Interwoven twigs and wicker supported the bottom of her ribcage, seemingly acting as a makeshift splint for her multiple fractures. Despite her multiple wounds, she stood tall and moved fluidly, as if attempting to conceal her condition. As Hiccup turned to her again and held her gaze, he could hardly help feeling the weight of the pain and the responsibility in the mirror of her forest orbs, as if in the inky depths of an algae-cluttered pond in the summertime. And he could bear the silence no more.

"It was Drago, wasn't it? The reason why you couldn't come home. The one who held you his prisoner and slave, all these years. Your honour, as a spearmaiden of the Berk Clan… Did he…?"

He gestured to the bloodied bandages and toward all of her. His fingers clenched into a vengeful fist at the thought of Drago, for he had seen what the man was capable of, at the thought of the late Drifter leader slandering his mother's noble Miseralian honour, and his father's, and his own. Hiccup almost wished the man were still alive, such that he could slice his insides apart with the heat of his plasma cutter and clean the Haddock name in Drago's blood.

The barely contained anger in his forest green glare only met the icy mirror of hers, clouded with a shimmer of what almost appeared as melancholy.

"Hiccup, I… I need to show you something."

* * *

 **Fun fact: Valka's weapon is loosely based off the atlatl, as in very very loosely. She uses it both in that way - as a throwing javelin - and as a spear for closer combat, which comes from her Viking training. The whole ball game ritual has been turned into a ceremonial fight because the Drifters have lost or forgotten much of the heritage of their ancestors and made up their own, often more violent rules for rites in the pre-existent sites. But that will be clearer in the next chapter. Also, I got rid of Drago off screen because a couple of new antagonists will be entering the scene very soon…**

 **Announcement: next chapter in 3 weeks or so…? Hopefully…?**


End file.
